


There Came Darkness

by acquaintedwithvice



Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bloodplay, Drama, F/M, Jealousy, Memory Related, Multi, Romance, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-04-04 13:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14021385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acquaintedwithvice/pseuds/acquaintedwithvice
Summary: Nearly a millennium and Abel remains imperfect - the spirit is willing but the flesh is weak. A tale of temptation, jealousy, and human nature.Playlists:https://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/there-came-darknesshttps://8tracks.com/virtueofvice/attrition





	1. Veniens ad Domum

**Author's Note:**

> _"When I looked for good, then evil came unto me: and when I waited for light, there came darkness."_
> 
> _\- Job 30:26_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed."_
> 
> _-Stephen King, **The Gunslinger**_

The battle-worn priest was not fleeing, exactly - or so he told himself - but nor did he tarry when he noted the small yet gaining glint of Vatican steel on the horizon. Tres Iquis, Code Name: Gunslinger; an AX Operative and single-minded cybernetic weapon designed for maximum efficiency. In the shifting sands of the desert dunes his pursuer occasionally stumbled, but never paused to rest or drink. Pale, pale blue, squinting against the glare of the sun behind his pince-nez style spectacles, Abel Nightroad shaded his eyes and looked ahead. He seemed to be approaching a ridge, the desert sands giving way to gravelly slag, then the haze of mirage. _Good._ With luck, he could lose his shadow there, disappearing over the rise and into whatever altered terrain lay below. _But luck is seldom with you, cursed son._ Glancing over his shoulder once, he muttered a prayer and broke into a sprint, heading for the crest of the hill like a lemming. As he reached the edge he swayed, tall body bowing backwards, arms windmilling wildly in an attempt to keep his balance as a mighty gust of wind buffeted him and vertigo rushed up from below. Beneath his feet a great chasm yawned, the other side of the plateau giving way to nothing, a sheer cliff he had been hurtling towards. And beneath it, rising from the depths of the valley with the roar of many engines and what seemed perversely like triumph, something he should have expected all along - the Iron Maiden II.

Intent on his goal he may well have been, and willing to return unto dust in pursuit of it, but he had many miles to travel until then, and Abel Nightroad was not a creature accustomed to an existence without the trappings of human comfort. Shelter, companionship... food. 

"Target: Located. Surrender, Father Abel Nightroad, Codename: Krusnik." Heaving a sigh that was not without its edge of irony, the priest raised his hands, hearing the approach of his once and future fellow operative from the rear.

"It's been a long time, Father Nightroad," Sister Kate's disembodied voice hailed like a herald from the heavens, piercing over a loudspeaker. "Cardinal Sforza will be thrilled to see you."

"I'm sure." Abel muttered, and suffered himself to be escorted onto the airship.

**+++**

Unconsciousness enveloped him. He had been visiting Esther, accompanying the Lady-Saint on a pilgrimage to a shrine south of Rome that had once been sacred to Methuselah and Terrans alike. It was supposed to be a private but significant event, strengthening ties with the Empire for both the Vatican and Albion...

But there had been an accident. Their car, overturned; a truck, bearing barrels of brandy and crates of fireworks for the welcoming festival planned in the Basilica that evening... An almost too-perfect synchronism of disaster. He'd used acceleration to snatch her from the plush interior of the limosuine as it rolled, leaping into the tangled shrubbery in the ditch beside the road as the air behind them exploded. Tried to shield her body with his own slender frame. And then... Nothing.

_"Ion. Ion. Drink."_

In the darkness, which was so total even his nocturnal eyes could not penetrate it, something was pressed to his lips. He expected the cool, curving rim of a goblet, the faint fizzing of Water of Life as its momentary acrid flavor died on his tongue. But what his lips met was alive, warm and soft and fluttering faintly, the rapid heartbeat of an animal in a snare. He inhaled sharply and pulled back, afraid for some reason he could not discern. Afraid of his own instinct, the ache in his jaw as fangs lengthened and the ever-present voracity in his stomach became a howling void.

"Esther... Esther, _no..._ " His protests were weak, halfhearted, throat working as he salivated and swallowed. _A noble of the empire, slavering like a common beast. For shame._

"Don't be ridiculous." The same tender voice chided, at once maternal and guileless. "You're weak as a kitten and we're thirty miles from anywhere. You need your strength, Tovarish." The tempting warmth was withdrawn, and he inhaled a sigh of relief, only to have a fresh cut pressed to his lips, pouring blood into his mouth as if he were an invalid.

 _Warm! Sweet!_ His senses cried out at the unexpected assault and he gripped her wrist, slim fingers encircling the fragile bones and fair skin and forcing the still-bleeding cut deeper into his mouth with a soft moan. Esther petted his hair gently, making soothing sounds in the dark.

When her gentle fingertips swiped the moisture from his cheek, he realized he had been weeping, silently, even as his fangs sank hard into her wrist when she tried to pull away. She shushed him, tutting gently as a mother would - he assumed, his own having been lost, murdered, ages ago - and with a casual lack of concern pressed on the joint of his jaw as if he were a venomous snake to remind him more firmly to let go.

"There now. That's better, isn't it?" She attempted to dab him with a handkerchief, but he snatched it away, pride returning with his strength as her mortal energy returned life to his injured limbs. "There's nothing to be ashamed of. What's a little blood between friends?" His eyes adjusted to the moonless night swiftly, finally seeing her face in the dark, noting her pallor and the silly but nervous smile she offered as she busily ripped cloth from her petticoat to bind her wrist.

"Let me, Tovarish." Ion said softly, pulling his dagger from the jeweled sheath at his belt.

"I can do it," Esther protested, knowing his weakness in proximity to her while she bled so freely. 

"Please, Esther," Garnet eyes met hers imploringly, "It is the very least I can do. At this rate, I will be indebted to you forever."

"Ion..." Esther bit her lip, casting her eyes down, but relinquished the bit of fabric she had been attempting to rip into smaller strips. They worked in harmony, binding her wound in silence, Ion breathing through his mouth in shallow, steady breaths. It was not the first time she had lent her essence in an emergency to the young Methuselah. He was fast and fierce but appeared so fragile, and she did not think she could bear another loss... There had been too many. He protested each time, but she could see the effort the battle cost him... Something dark, deep in the bottom of her where the light could not reach, was pleased by that.

"Sister Kate will be here soon to pick us up. I was able to contact Cardinal Sforza with the emergency communicator in the black box from the limo." Esther informed him softly, when the task was complete. She smoothed her skirts and got to her feet, instinctively looking around; accustomed after all her years in AX and tagging along after Nightroad to almost constant danger.

 _Nightroad_. The thought of the older man made him a little bitter and a little nostalgic all at once. When he had been injured in combat, the wandering priest had departed their inn in the concealing daylight, inn servants armed with a stern letter and Vatican seal packing him off to Rome like a child. The thought made Ion burn with resentment... But the timing had been fortuitous. Esther's return to the Holy City had coincided neatly with his own... Almost as if the old fox had planned it. And now here they were, standing in the dirt at the side of the King's Road, waiting for the Duchess of Milan's airship.

Some things never change.

It wasn't until much later, when he shot upright in bed sweating and breathless, that Ion recalled - some _do._


	2. Diabolus Scitis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"The Devil, until an hour before he fell, even God thought him beautiful in Heaven."_
> 
>  
> 
> _**The Crucible, Act I**_

_Some things never change._

Abel sighed, pushing the spectacles he didn't need and would never stop wearing further up the bridge of his aristocratic nose as he waited for Catherina to finish reading Ion's report on the accident that had brought Esther so abruptly to Rome. Even now, the Lady-Saint and Queen of Albion was resting in her suite, the Albion guards accompanying her from her new home country refusing to allow visitors until she awoke.

He longed to see her. He had kept the yearning at bay whilst away from Rome, but once again in sight of its famous cathedrals and the flocks of pigeons sailing to and fro across the blue, blue sky... His heart was full of her. _Esther._ His guiding star. The one pure thing he had ever managed to keep safe from himself. He had not expected her to be here. She was not _supposed_ to be here. But because she was here... He could not help himself. She was his greatest weakness.

But first things first. He had barely finished his first meal in the Holy City, but a mouth like his could not expect to be fed for free - or so went the Duchess of Milan's way of thinking. He was to be put to work, and he stood before her awaiting his first new assignment. She hadn't even taken the formality of reassigning him to AX - he had never been declassified. Catherina had a way of getting what she wanted, in the end.

"I suppose you both realize the likelihood of this incident being a true accident is extremely low," she commented, inspecting them over her reading glasses like a schoolteacher quizzing particularly precocious students. Both men nodded silently. "Esther Blanchett has been a target for extremist groups from multiple camps for some time, we all know this." She made the statement as if it were a matter of public knowledge, coolly, as if it meant nothing to her. Perhaps it did not. Still waters ran deep, and Catherina Sforza was very still. She had little to say on the matter of her personal sentiments towards Sister Esther Blanchett. But she was no fool. The Vatican's assets required deft and adequate protection.

"Because we cannot confirm from which direction the attack will come, for the time being it would be best if we supply the Lady-Saint with a bodyguard from each faction. Working together towards a common goal is the best way to present a united front. And this joint effort will strengthen our ties with the Empire. So, beginning tomorrow, you will both be serving Lady Esther for the remainder of her tour of pilgrimage as personal bodyguards. You have the Vatican's sanction to protect her and to exterminate any threats to her person with extreme prejudice. Understood?"

The two men glanced at each other, then at Catherina - but something about the Cardinal's bearing suggested that one of her famous migraines, becoming more frequent in recent years, was coming on, and that it might be best to make their escape while the opportunity was ripe. They nodded and excused themselves with as much grace as they could muster.

**+++**

The sharing of blood is an intimate thing, carrying with it all sorts of unforeseen consequences. Esther's inestimably high regard for the man she called  _Father_ had been a thorn in Ion's side for some time now, digging into him mercilessly every time she looked longingly towards the horizon during a lapse in conversation; the way time seemed to stop for her at the mention of the clergyman's name. Of course he would have been aware of her feelings without ever tasting her blood. But because he had... There was an added layer of depth and color to that awareness. An imprint, a collection of memories stolen silently from her mind and hoarded covetously in his own heart. One part science so ancient it looked like magic, two parts base human envy - Ion was a walking echo of the secrets in her soul.

Emerging from Catherina's imperious presence, both men walked silently for a while, lost in thought. Their thoughts ran parallel to one another, though somewhat at odds, as is often the case where a woman is involved.

"You were with Esther outside the city? You two seem to be as close as ever," Abel commented, his airy tone not entirely concealing the edge of bitterness beneath it. It had been a long time since the Blessed Queen had traveled in his own company. He missed... everything. Everything about her.

"I'm curious, priest," Ion began casually, strolling with a gait more youthful than he was by the taller man's side as they slipped through one of the many moonlit gardens decorating the Cardinal's labyrinthine palatial grounds. "Did you never once wonder why I did not claim the Princess Esther for my human consort, despite her obvious beauty?"

Abel bristled, stopping on the cobbled path to look sharply at the golden-haired youth eyeing him laconically. He stilled, but said nothing.

"Despite what a prize she would be for the Empire?" Ion paused, breaking the taller man's gaze for the first time since he had started speaking. "Despite my own affections?"

"Are you building to a point?" The priest queried, with the notoriously finite patience for which he was infamous.

"Just that I know something you don't know," The Prince of Moldova mocked, mature speech for once sounding childish as he adopted a slightly singsong cadence. "It's all there if you know where to look, written out in black and white. Or, I should say, red. _Deep_ red." He raised fingertips to his lips in a staged gasp, as if he had said too much, eyes widening in theatrical surprise even as Abel's glinted red behind their round glasses.

"You _fed_  on her?" he snarled, gripping the younger man's tunic and hauling him off the pavement without a thought.

"Yes, many times," Ion replied, unconcerned and smirking down at the priest from where he was held aloft like a misbehaving lion cub. "The Lady Esther is a generous soul."

Abel relaxed his grip, letting the vampire princeling drop to the ground - landing on his feet, of course, catlike smugness still in place. "Then... she went willingly."

"I dare say she _pressed_ me, priest-"

 _Click._ "Careful." The barrel of Nightroad's six-shooter was pointed square at him, blessed silver bullets glinting in the bland sodium arc illumination of the guardhouse spotlight, minute crosses etched into the tip of each. A small trickle of ice ran down Ion's spine. "Be very careful."

Ion spread his hands. "Peace, _Pater._ " He lowered his gaze, a gesture of submission. "Esther does not feel for me as a woman feels for a man. She is my friend. She calls me Tovarish."

The barrel of the revolver lowered, but Abel looked pained. "What?"

"Does not the Duchess of Kiev feel the same for you?" Ion pressed curiously. "I know you are Tovarish to her."

The priest looked askance, color highlighting his cheekbones. "That's... complicated."

Ion hummed, darkly amused. "I wonder what the Lady-Saint would have to say about that."

"Tell me." Abel gritted through clenched teeth, nanomachines in his blood churning, a billion tiny voices howling like the damned for release. "What you know. Tell me." _I crave her so abominably._

Ion laughed easily, waving a dismissive hand at the very idea. Words would never be sufficient to encompass all that he had absorbed. And something in him demanded recompense, some sacrifice on the priest's part - a small taste, just for him; a single bite of victory. "The memory is mine, given to me unwittingly, the only taste of her I will ever have - and I guard it jealously." He informed Abel. "If you would have it of me, priest, you will have to take it as I took it from her - through blood alone."

Abel stared at him incredulously. "...What?"

"I know what you are, _Krusnik._ The Duchess of Milan's _God of Destruction._ I know what you can do. What's a little blood between friends?" Esther's pure words of charity came back to haunt him in this, his darkest hour. _Are you watching, Radu? Are you proud?_

The priest spoke, but the voice that came out was not one the vampire noble was familiar with. It was... ancient, cruel. _Hungry._ "Have you taken leave of your senses, Count of Memphis?" Ruby eyes studied him as a snake studies a rabbit it has already captured in hypnosis; relaxed, curious.

Ion shivered in spite of himself. Clouds gathered overhead, the Krusnik's kinetic energy attracting thunder and the scent of rain. Wind blew platinum locks into his eyes but he met the burning gaze that towered over him regardless. The Duchess of Moldova had raised no coward. "You awakened as a man, Nightroad. Look at this body. Even as a noble of the Empire, I'm treated as a child everywhere I go. I want to know what it feels like... Even if it's just an echo. I want to know." _She'll never be mine. Let me have at least this._

The crimson faded from his eyes as Abel relaxed. He stared at Ion for a long time, expression complex and strained as if holding back some great feeling, though what it could be the Methuselah had no inkling. Finally, saying nothing, he turned on his heel and walked off in the opposite direction, heading for the palace and presumably his own guest chambers, leaving Ion standing in the garden alone.

The prince stayed there for longer than he would have cared to admit to anyone, feeling strangely boneless and drained, then withdrew to his chambers before dawn's far-reaching fingers chased the darkness from the sky.


	3. Avaritia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine."_
> 
>  
> 
> _**The Tempest, Act V**_

The chapel was quiet, early morning sunshine filtering through the leaves of the great old trees stationed outside like weary sentinels. Birds were chirping merrily, the brisk morning air seemingly all they required for joy, but otherwise the place seemed deserted - the quiet hours between Prime and Terce often saw houses of prayer empty as those in the service of God labored elsewhere.

Esther sighed, slipping into the chapel but leaving the door open behind her, the soft breeze rustling her skirts and russet hair bracing, like an old friend. It had been such a long road back to Rome from her seat in Albion. When she had first announced her intentions for a tour of pilgrimage, her council of advisors had been outraged. Time had only slightly softened their opinions. Yet... She had desperately needed the escape, some respite from the stifling air of Albion. The Duchess of Erin, her cousin, ruled competently as regent in her stead. Her home by blood it may have been, but... Though she struggled with her faith in the well of loneliness that was the Albion court; something about the church kept calling her home.

 _It's as if I never left._ She looked around, fingering the rosary she still carried everywhere, a habit she could not bear to break. _I almost expect to hear him call my name-_

Frowning and impatient with herself, she shook her head, banishing the thought. Here in Rome she had hoped to rest, to find some measure of peace, if only for a moment. Her face flushed with embarrassment and anger as she recalled the dream that had awoken her that morning.

_Father... **Abel...** Please...!_

Seized by a sudden urge, the Lady-Saint of Albion approached the confessional. She had not given confession for longer than she cared to admit - keeping confidence as a nun was frowned upon, but as a head of state, commonplace. She felt smothered by the weight of her secret, which had been growing in her for years and haunted her still.

Reaching the confessional, a lavish affair carved all in blonde wood to match the bright and airy chapel, she was beyond surprised to see an AX operative lingering nearby. _Of all the priests in Rome..._ "Father Tres!" She said, a little too brightly in an attempt to conceal her alarm. "Are you hearing confession today?"

Tres looked at her, seeming bored as ever despite her abrupt appearance. She tried to not take it personally. "Negative. I was ordained on the Duchess of Milan's orders but as a machine am not qualified to hear confession nor offer absolution." The response was perfect, measured and entirely without tact; as if he had rehearsed it. Of course he had not.

"But why?" It seemed a superficial distinction, given the status of some other AX operatives she could name. Tres was as cold as they come, to be sure; but ordination from the Vatican was a blessing from God. Esther couldn't understand his reasoning.

Tres seemed equally confused by the question, the mechanical pupils in his eyes expanding and contracting as he examined her facial expression for any signs of humor or ulterior motive behind the line of questioning. "I do not possess a soul."

Esther frowned. "I don't know if I necessarily agree, Father-"

"Your input is noted but not required."

She looked at him, slightly exasperated, but continued - if nothing else, Tres could keep a secret. And, well, any port in a storm. It seemed he was the only priest she was going to get today. "Well... That's okay. Could you just listen? And not tell anyone?"

"...Providing mission parameters remain uncompromised, positive."

It was as close to a yes as she would ever get from Tres. It seemed strangely formal, entering the confessional after having such a strange conversation out in the open, so Esther merely seated herself in a pew. Tres remained standing, but didn't look at her, his gaze instead fixed on the door at the far end of the chapel. He seemed strangely expectant, as if waiting for something. The Queen of Albion swallowed to calm her nerves.

"Bless me Father, for I have sinned." Esther began in a shaky voice, crossing herself and folding her hands in her lap. Somewhat mechanically, the android priest repeated the blessing, making the sign of the cross over her bowed head.

"I have had lustful thoughts. I have harbored impure yearnings toward a man of the cloth. I..." _I have knelt in prayer with an idol before me, graven on the darkness behind my eyes in silver and black-_  Her voice trembled and broke, and she pressed gloved fingertips to her lips to keep the words from spilling out.

Tres was silent for a long time. Esther kept her head down, cheeks burning with shame. Finally he spoke - and she immediately wished he hadn't.

"Lady Esther, cross-referencing of memory file archives suggests your confession concerns Father Nightroad. Is this data projection correct?"

Esther stilled, fidgeting hands frozen in her lap. "W-what?"

Her would-be confessor studied her with what might have been curiosity on a different man. "Request answer input, Lady Esther Blanchett."

The silence stretched out too long to be anything but assent. "I... I suppose I shouldn't have put you in this position. I apologize, Tres. Incidentally, do you know where Father Nightroad might be right now? I haven't received a letter in some time."

"Positive. Father Nightroad is idling in position 1.25 meters away from our current location."

_"What?"_

And whipping around, the Lady-Saint, who had recently confessed her darkest secrets out loud, met the wide blue eyes she'd been thinking of when she spoke them. Abel stood in the aisle, motionless, one hand gripping the ornate crest of a pew so tight the antique wood looked as if it might splinter beneath his white gloved fingers.

"Father?" Esther asked tremulously, afraid to break the silence.

Tres had no such compunction, sensing with his usual precision that his presence was no longer required here and removing himself to attend to more practical matters. The Duchess of Milan would be pleased to hear that Krusnik had reported for duty in a timely manner. He exited through the chapel's side door, the sound of birds in the trees outside briefly punctuating his departure. Still, the chapel was silent, the air between its two occupants undisturbed.

"You're back?" Esther asked softly, afraid to speak too loudly lest he turn out to be an apparition and vanish into the wind again.

"I could say the same to you, Lady-Saint." _Don't hate me._

"But... Here? Now?" She seemed lost, uncertain - she did not know how much he had heard. 

 _All of it. I heard all of it._ "Cardinal Sforza was most insistent. The Count of Memphis and I are to be joining you for the remainder of your tour of pilgrimage. We will serve as your bodyguards." He sketched a courtly bow to hide his anxiety, his knowledge... His need to take her in his arms and seek truth in her eyes, almost overwhelming.

Esther flushed red, the blush traveling down her neck and up even to the tips of her delicate ears. Her humiliation was total; the storm of feelings in her abdomen at seeing the Father again making her feel a little ill and quite a bit dizzy. She pressed a hand to her stomach, fluttering like a bird in a cage beneath the tight embroidered bodice. "I see... I'm so glad, Father. I've missed traveling with you. I... If you'll excuse me, I think I need to lie down." She brushed past him, one small hand pressing fondly to the cuff of his sleeve as she passed, and was gone - as if she'd been a daydream.

Behind her, there was the sound of stressed wood finally giving way with a snap, and Abel heaved a long-suffering sigh.  _You are killing me, my love._

_Don't stop._

**+++**

Ion opened his west-facing chamber door high atop a parapet in the very finest guest wing of the Cardinal's palace. The setting sun, bright but tolerable to his sensitive eyes, waved a bloody farewell as it faded from the sky over distant hills. On his threshold, pale and sweating, was Father Nightroad. The Count was only mildly surprised to see him. He stepped aside, silently ushering the taller man inside with a rustle of black cloth and a furtive glance through lowered lashes to see if he'd been followed.

Abel swallowed, fidgeting with his glasses before finally removing and pocketing the useless things. He had kept his silence all day, waiting in solitude for the madness to pass. The _wanting._  It had not. He stood with his back to the Count, staring at the floor, a fine line between his brows, shoulders heavy beneath some great invisible burden. Finally he looked at Ion, expression nakedly abject. "I need to know."  _I need her._

"Then you know what you have to do, priest."

Abel glared at him, breathing slightly labored, hands balled into fists at his sides. " _Krusnik_02 nanomachines... Release of restrictions at 20%... Approved._ "

It was too much - the boy prince was willing, proud but offering himself freely, after a fashion. He could have made do with ten percent of his maximum power output or even less. But he wanted it to hurt. He wanted the slender frame to tremble in his arms as he sank curved fangs into crisp immortal flesh. _Monster._

"This is a dangerous game you are playing, Count of Memphis," the Krusnik growled with his mouth, tone deep and aberrant. He drew Ion easily near with one hand, dragging him up till his toes brushed the ground, pulling his hair none too gently to bare the slender white throat, youthful and feminine. Ion whined softly, clearly beginning to regret his decision... It made the pulse fluttering beneath his alabaster skin all the more appealing.

Abel shivered, all at once flooded with the awareness of blood, of satisfaction, so near. _Bless me Father, for I have sinned..._  He had never been a decent man.

Fangs pressed against skin, needle-sharp, and Ion twitched, gasping; but robed arms gripped him tightly and suddenly the priest was _inside him_ , wicked teeth buried in the softness of his neck, small tear in his carotid gushing deep burgundy with every frantic beat of his Methuselan heart. He had never felt this kind of total powerlessness before, this profound but tenuous link between predator and prey. He went limp, surrendering beneath the lethal penetration, allowing the Krusnik to do as he would.

Red flowed over Abel's tongue and he drank deeply, seldom so hedonistic as to actually take blood directly from the source, rarely brazen enough to enjoy it. Something about the Count's challenge, all youthful swagger and illicit promise, had led him here; one more secret to hide away in the dark. And there, there it was! The taste of Esther's blood, delicate and _bright_ , hardly overwhelmed at all by the intoxicating heaviness of vampire noble rich in Ion's body. Her patterns wove a bold ribbon through the crimson river of his senses and the nanomachines latched onto his consciousness, firing electrical impulses up his spinal cord and into his brain, making his eyes white out as he spiraled  _down, down, down_  into the vision in his veins.  
  
_The scene was a familiar one - only the angle was different. For a moment he was disoriented, because his eyes opened to bright sunlight, and when his vision cleared he was looking at himself. He appeared oblivious, gazing out the window of an airship in motion - the Iron Maiden II. Then he realized, he was seeing himself through Esther's eyes... Her memory of him. He felt the heat in her body as she stared at him, studying the planes and angles of his face, the strands of silver falling over one shoulder. He flipped a page in the book he was reading and her eyes followed his fingertips, and he felt her bite her lip, felt the crimson blush creeping up her neck, felt the warmth pool below her navel. Her thoughts wandered and he followed them, to the dark place where she stored all her sinful thoughts and clandestine longings. The needy press of fingers against warm flesh, biting down on white linen to hide her indiscretions. There, in the dark, he heard her voice cry out his name - his **given** name_.   
  
_"Abel!"_

The priest shuddered; the young, slender Methuselah slipping from his grasp in a swoon and crumpling to the floor in a heap of exotic silks and gold cloth. The vision had come to him all at once, like the final tile settling into a mosaic, but now played out in living color repeatedly behind his staring eyes. He pressed a gloved hand to his hammering heart, blood on his lips, breathing strained. He bent, lifting the Count from the floor with no effort, depositing the young prince in the sumptuous bed the Duchess had afforded him. Some rest and a little Water of Life would revive him - with hands that still trembled, a little, he prepared the elixir and raised the glass to the Methuselah's lips, helping him to drink. 

Finally Ion looked at him, ruby eyes glinting with secret knowledge. "Ah, Orpheus returns." He quipped. "How did you enjoy your trip to the underworld, priest?" He stretched languidly, every inch the decadent vampire a member of the priesthood would expect to see. But in the cold light of reality, there was something knowing in the Count's smirk that Abel could not bear. Something that branded him a conspirator, willing and complicit in this act. He, who Esther trusted to guide and protect her, to steal something so precious... So  _private..._

He could still hear her voice calling his name. He stood, brushing off his robes as if he could be made clean, and turned away. "This cannot...  _Will not..._ Happen again."

Ion smirked, sitting up in bed, the Water of Life already returning a little color to his ivory cheeks. "See you soon...  _Abel._ "

The priest cut a glare in his direction over one shoulder, but strode out without looking back. 


	4. Temptationem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man."_
> 
>  
> 
>   _ **-Fyodor Dostoevsky**_

It was difficult to dissuade Catherina Sforza, once she had her mind set on something. However pure Esther's intentions may have been when embarking upon her journey; the tour of pilgrimage had quickly become something of a political venture, an opportunity the Duchess of Milan was exploiting with all of her usual finesse. After a long day of public appearances in and around the Basilica, shaking hands with the College of Cardinals - most of whom despised her and everything she stood for, and her illustrious host to boot - the Queen of Albion was ushered home like a pretty doll to be bathed, perfumed, and redressed for dinner. There was to be a banquet at the Cardinal's home, in her Eminence's private dining hall. The Pope would be present, whom Esther had not seen for years. It was a great honor to attend.  
  
She ignored her sore feet and stiff neck, counted herself lucky for the invitation, and reminded herself to smile. Ion had sent her a gift, delivered by the maids employed in the palace, but she was still too shy to allow her ladies to dress her except when in dire need. She sent them away and looked over the parcel herself. Lavish silks in sunset shades, pale enough to compliment her fair skin but warm enough to bring out the fiery tones in her titian hair. The gift had been chosen thoughtfully and she considered for a moment that it may have come from the Empress herself... _Not that her Imperial Majesty would or should have any time to waste choosing presents for me!_ She chided herself, and out of habit stepped behind a screen to change. After a moment she began to wish she had allowed the women to stay and assist her, for despite what seemed like yard upon yard of sheer, delicately dyed silk, there really wasn't very much to the garment. She'd forgotten that things were done a little differently in the Empire.

Esther sighed, eyeing her reflection in the mirror. Moments like this she keenly felt the absence of a mother in her life. The Bishop Vitez, and other figures that had followed her - for better or worse - had tried their best, when guiding the young woman on her path, to teach her what she would need to know. But no one had time, in a world at war, to teach her anything about this. She felt ill at ease in such a garment, out of her element - it would have been unheard of, as a representative of the church, to attend a social function in such a garment. But what about a political function, as a head of state? There was no rulebook for such a transition, and she felt horribly out of her depth.

A soft knock at her chamber door startled her out of her reverie, and she quickly slipped on the gold slippers that had accompanied the outfit, grateful at least for something more comfortable than her lace-up boots. She ran a wooden comb through her hair and then bound it up loosely with a single carved jade pin, a gift from Seth before her departure from the Empire some years before. She thought it would suit the occasion. "Who is it?" She queried cautiously, approaching the door.

On the other side of the door, Abel rested his palm against the wood, remembering another door, another moment long ago. At her question, however, he paused, debating internally for perhaps a moment too long - it felt strange and uncomfortable to refer to himself as "Father Nightroad" - the sweet and gentle mask he wore, a killer in an ill-fitting suit... Yet he could not bring himself to offer up his Christian name, either. His cheekbones colored at the thought. "It's me." He finally announced, trusting in their long association to announce his presence for him. "Her Eminence has sent me to escort you to dinner."

Esther blanched. For _him_  to be the first to see her like this... It was something she had not prepared herself for, and her hand on the door's latch was unsteady. But she pulled it open regardless, chin a little stubborn in the light of the setting sun as she faced him. The Star of Istvan did not run.

For a long moment Abel could only stare. The silence was uncouth of him, to be sure, but he could find no words. Somehow she had acquired the traditional garb of the Empire, worn by nobles in the Empress' court. Sheer flowing skirts, brushing the floor around her slippered feet, were slit to both hips to allow freedom of movement and to keep the wearer cool. Dazzling shades of coral and gold flowed over her torso in a V-shape, tying in an elegant knot beneath her hair, which was twisted up, baring her neck. A noble of the Empire would have adorned themselves heavily with gold jewelry and gems, but she wore only her rosary and the signet ring of the Albion royal house.

"I... My, Esther," he managed finally, exhaling the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding as he gazed at her. "You certainly look lovely." And then he smiled, as innocently as he could muster - the consummate actor, the tips of his ears red.

Esther glanced away, also blushing. "Father, you're too kind."

He shouldn't have offered her his arm, probably. It was physical contact too tempting to be pure, and he was for all intents and purposes a man of the cloth - to be seen strolling across the Vatican with a woman on his arm, even such a specific woman, could raise questions. Even if they were not seen, the warm hum under his skin when she set her palm over his sleeve should have been cause for alarm, reason enough to question his motives. He did not. He laid his gloved hand over hers, the perfect, perfectly archaic gentleman, and led her to the banquet.

Ion was, predictably, in attendance. The wayward priest knew that a night in hell would not have been complete without his own personal demon. They stood near the door, beautiful bodyguards in their Vatican and Empire garb, respectively, and watched over Albion's Virgin Queen, Lady-Saint of the Vatican and Defender of Methuselah, Friend to the Empire, whom everyone had come to see.

"She is stunning, isn't she?" Ion muttered under his breath. He knew Abel could hear him, would of course be listening. "That's Empire fashion... Very exquisite work... But I expect you know that, already; since it was a gift from her Imperial Majesty." He fell silent, waiting for the other man's reaction.

Abel worked to keep his expression neutral. The clothes had come from the Empress, Seth... His sister? It stood to reason she would expect Esther to wear them here, at this summit. And his sister was no fool, she knew he would be in attendance... How typical. It was difficult to keep the irritation from his face. His youngest sibling enjoyed being meddlesome. It was impossible that she was unaware of his feelings for the Star of Hope. They had hardly discussed the matter, yet somehow said everything there was to say.

_That child... Is a lot like her._

And the jade pin, glinting in her hair...

Abel felt a sudden hurt, a sharp stab beneath his ribs, a slim blade of melancholy and loss and remorse. The pin... He had seen it before, of course. 800 years ago, give or take. It had belonged to another, once. The pretty thing had always looked loveliest in vibrant red hair. It gave him more pleasure than pain to see it so appreciated again.

"Breathe, priest." Ion reprimanded quietly, and Abel noted with some disbelief that there was actual concern in the antagonistic little brat's voice. "Drink this and get yourself together." The Prince of Moldova pressed a glass of red wine on him from the Duchess' private reserve. The liquid gleamed in the goblet, thick and dark; aromatic scent of crushed grapes tempting. 

Abel eyed him warily, but accepted the cup for the olive branch it was, drinking deeply. The room was uncomfortably warm in his heavy AX uniform, and it had already been a long night. Esther was seated beneath a dripping candelabra, its softly glowing light illuminating her slender form and casting her shape into soft relief beneath the colored silk. It was absurd to imagine that any eye in the room could rest elsewhere, the way she looked. Holy men and heads of state seated around the table, such a noble assemblage, but they all found reasons to address her directly, with perhaps a bit more familiarity than was warranted. Her cheeks flushed pink under the unwelcome attention and the warmth of the wine poured freely by gold-robed servants. When she laughed, or quietly demurred, or turned her head to consider a question carefully before offering a thoughtful answer, the light and shadow played across her skin, and he stared hungrily, until he became aware that his were not the only eyes tracking movement. He was watching Esther, and Catherina was watching _him._

He tried his utmost to look disinterested, but there was no hiding from Catherina Sforza. Her shrewd eyes saw all, and could not be dissuaded from that knowledge. The cold stare swept over him from toe to crown, seeming to lower the temperature of the room by several degrees in the wake of her disapproval; and then she swept her gaze away, dismissing him as if he were beneath her notice. Abel exhaled a breath he hadn't been aware of holding beneath her scrutiny. The best option now was to attempt to stay focused on the actual purpose for his presence there - guarding the attendants of the banquet, and not fixating on the elegant and infinitely desirable curve of Esther's slender neck.

His teeth would fit just so into the-

_No._

Servants filed silently out from the adjoining chamber and whisked their plates away, lying out frosty bowls of mint sorbet with which to cleanse the palate. The group of nobles dallied over the iced treat, but it was plain that Catherina's patience for company was wearing thin - with a look, she drew near to her those she had business with, and silently dismissed the rest. Those left unchosen milled about, congratulating each other on their general wealth and wellbeing, seeking an opportunity to curry favor with the Holy Father or Queen of Albion by prolonging their attendance unnecessarily - but like the dishes, emptied of their purpose, these too would soon be whisked away.

"Looks like it's winding down, old man." Ion quipped, as Catherina rose to thank her guests for attending and to pass out the customary small gifts borne in by her servants. "Shall I relieve you of your duty?"

Abel hesitated, looking at Esther still sitting alone, placid and a little sad in the candlelight. She caught the Pope's eye and sent him a tiny, reassuring smile - her flame bright even under this bushel. Then her gaze slid to his, as reliable as a compass needle even across the bustling room; and blushed beneath his scrutiny. He was unpleasantly taken aback by the way his stomach clenched and his jaw ached, looking at her. A giddy surge of esurient intent swallowed him up, and he leaned back against the wall, pale eyes narrow behind his glasses. "I... Should escort Esther back to her chambers." He muttered the words softly, as if testing the feel of them in his mouth, senses too alert and too aware of her as she rose gracefully and began bidding her fellow guests farewell. Her slim white arms, elegant like the branches of a willow against the peach and gold rainbow of her gown; the way one delicate hand rose to ensure that the jade pin was still secure in her russet hair. 

Ion raised a brow at him. "Sun's gone down, _Pater._  That honor belongs to me." His crimson eyes gleamed knowingly. "Probably for the best. You're looking a little... Peaked."

As she drew nearer to his orbit, the scent of her - summer flowers, ripe fruit on the vine - called to him relentlessly and Abel swallowed, shooting Ion a glare that could have bent steel. "Judge not, Count of Memphis." He snapped, and withdrew; escaping through the servants' door and out the rear of the palace before he revealed to all and sundry exactly what type of monster the Duchess of Milan kept hidden under layers of priestly black.


	5. Radix Malorum Est Cupiditas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Tempt not a desperate man."_
> 
>  
> 
> _**-Romeo and Juliet, Act V**_

The apostle Paul (a model of hypocrisy if ever there was one), after his conversion, wrote to the church in Corinth - "Everything is lawful; but not everything is beneficial." As a member of AX and a priest ordained by the Vatican; Abel was permitted a certain degree of license that he largely ignored. The Father led a humble life, abstaining from the simple pleasures of existence. 

But not tonight. Offered as a sacrament to slake his longing, Catherina's excellent wine had instead served only to stoke the fires of his unholy need. Barred securely in his chambers, a prisoner in a self-made cell, he poured another glass and drank it down; for all the world a man dying in the desert. 

A knock at the door startled him, and dread welled up in his belly, acrid fear tinged with the fecundity of grapes and willful indulgence. Catherina, come to scold him for his indiscretions? It was possible. But he had known the Duchess almost all her life, and her regal tread was familiar to his ears. He had heard nothing, no subtle signal of approach.

Rearranging his features into an expression of polite inquiry, he crossed the room and opened the door.

The Count of Memphis waited on the other side, smirking knowingly. _Of course._ He ducked under the priest's outstretched arm, slithering into the room with casual confidence, a serpent in the Garden of Eden - and Abel himself, both the tempted and the fallen. He could already feel the Krusnik battering away at his defenses, hungry for release. 

"What are you doing here?" He demanded, tone more threat than the dulcet welcome of a holy man. Already knowing the answer, seeing it reflected in ruby eyes, in Cupid's bow drawn back in a smirk. 

"You know what I'm doing here." Ion returned simply, carding fingers through his blonde hair, sweeping it to one side, running a fingertip down the exposed, vulnerable line of his neck. Abel followed the gesture, swallowing hard, bitterly embattled for control. The prince pressed carelessly deep with a sharp fingernail, right at the terminus of his carotid; causing a well of deep scarlet to pool in the hollow of his throat, spilling over in a thin red line that trickled over his pronounced collarbone and disappeared beneath imperial finery. Pressing the offending digit to his lips, he licked it, eyes fluttering for a moment at the hint of sweetness as he stared into the middle distance, coyly detached. "I can still taste her in me." 

Stare intense as he watched the Count's performance; Abel outright whined in frustration as Ion baited the trap. At the Methuselah's words, he inhaled sharply in a hiss; hands balled into fists at his sides, quaking with the effort of abstinence. "Get thee behind me, Satan." He growled, voice tight, and tore his gaze away, glaring at a wardrobe in the corner of the room as if he could incinerate it through will alone. 

Ion merely chuckled, painting the same offending fingertip lazily through the blood adorning his narrow chest. It was obvious he'd been drinking, motions languid and dreamy. There was something very like Cain in him at these moments; something playful and sinful all at once, mocking the base weaknesses he preyed on. Abel turned back to face him, to drive him away, and was met with the quick and deliberate press of a fingertip into his mouth, painting his lower lip red with blood. 

As the now-familiar taste greeted his tongue Abel groaned quietly, feeling the fight go out of him. He gripped the golden prince by his loose, fashionable tunic; hauling him up and binding him close with that same iron grip that had so thrilled and petrified the Count in their last encounter. 

"Release of restrictions at 30%... Confirmed. You will regret this, Count of Memphis," the Krusnik warned, having fought so hard for freedom and standing now at the threshold of escape.

Ion's smirk was mocking even in his compromised position. "We all do things we're not proud of, Fa- _Ah!_ "

For now there were teeth buried in his neck, needle-sharp and ruthless; and the air in the room grew thin and crackled with ozone. He felt that familiar pull, his very life force drawn out through his throat, and the priest held him crushingly tight, his ribs aching. Long lashes fluttered as his eyes slid shut, surrendering to the memory pouring out of him like fresh blood.

_For a moment all was crimson and scarlet; and Abel wondered at the bloodbath that he had awakened to in memory. Then he inhaled, breath into another's lungs, and all became clear. It was Esther's vibrant hair that obscured his vision; her scent of fruit and flowers a lure on his tongue. He - Ion, in truth - buried his face in her neck, the sweet curve and radiant warmth heady and ambrosial. He trembled with the urge to bite; fingers curling into fists so tight that sharp fingernails sank red crescents into his palms._

_Esther squirmed, her petite curves trapped between his thighs inviting in the worst way. Her skin was soft white against the stark black of her stolen Empire garb, delicate collarbone and lush curves inviting the worship of tongue and teeth. And all the while, he remained painfully anchored to the moment by his awareness of the boy as he had been; conflicted, ridden by thirst, dying._

_Long hands cradled his head, drawing him near to skin bared by the tunic wrenched open through struggle and love. "I'll give it to you," she was murmuring softly, voice the very soul of charity and forgiveness as she whispered his greatest temptation in his ear. "If you want my blood, go ahead and take it." Ion's whine was an echo of his own, voice in his head loud as he tried in vain to escape her gentle, inexorable grip. His jaw ached, fire burning his throat, consuming him from the inside out. He gasped, and the sound echoed in both memory and reality as his vision turned hazy and red, recollection receding like a tide._

Abel could not think, consciousness entangled with memory, thoughts swirling in a roiling storm of red. Equal parts envy and greed, wrath and avarice ruled him. The pampered princeling, both blessed and cursed by Fortuna, was a rag doll in his arms. What to do with this sin, this sinner? He would kill him. He would simply kill him, drain him dry and hide the beautiful empty husk away somewhere; and then the temptation would be removed permanently, and no other living person would possess the memory of Esther pinned beneath him, offering no resistance, vulnerable naked skin above disheveled black edged with gold... 

The Count of Memphis felt the older man hard against his hip, and while he knew the sentiment was not directed at him specifically, could not help the swoop in his belly nor the deep scarlet that burned his cheeks when his own cock stiffened in response. Rosebud lips parted in a gasp but no sound emerged, strangled in a confusing storm of sensation that muddled his thoughts as the priest gripped him firmly, feet in their satin slippers dangling several inches off the ground like a virginal victim.The anamnesis of Esther's creamy flesh, the curve of her neck and swell of her full breasts, was fresh in his mind and on his tongue; and the priest huffing hotly into his ear as he held him close did nothing to banish the image. Fangs scraped along his carotid, seeking a second point of entry, greedy for more of his vital essence and hoarded memory. With a tremble that went down to his bones, Ion whined. 

"Put me _down_ , Vaticanus," he snapped, not half as sharply as he wished he could. The quaver in his voice shamed him nearly as much as his humiliating arousal and he scowled imperiously, crimson eyes glinting. "You've had enough."

At the Count's demanding tone, the priest remembered himself; albeit belatedly. As if awakening from a dream, he lowered the prince slowly to the floor, the drag of heavy robes and slender limp body against his throbbing need titillating and yet desperately uncomfortable. Abel released the Methuselah, arms heavy as lead sliding free; and took a half step back, slumping against the richly appointed armoire. He looked disheveled, cheekbones highly colored, silver hair spilling over his shoulders, glasses conspicuously absent. Robes of black conveniently concealed what Ion knew with some resentment to be a truly _magnificent_  erection.

Probably best to avoid commenting upon that.

Abel glared at the boy prince, near quaking with fury - the sensation of the maiden saint, captured trembling and lushly ripe beneath him, was still fresh and all too real. But the experience had been Ion's, not his own. However deep the misfortune that had brought the two together into such a scenario, he could not help the jealousy that raged in him with the knowledge of it.  _His mouth on her throat!_  He felt again the sensation of his tongue tracing that pulsing arterial line, heard her gasp when he opened his jaws to bite... An experience he had never had. An experience he should have found abhorrent even to contemplate; but shamefully, _horribly_ , didn't. Crimson edged his vision, and Ion backed away a single step - wisely, he thought.

Abel grimaced, features hidden in shadow, inner conflict too violent to contain. He craved solitude acutely. "Get out," he snapped, voice low enough in timbre that it was obvious the Krusnik lingered just beneath the surface, hungry still and waiting. "And don't trespass here again."

For once Ion held his tongue, pale and a little weak from blood loss and the lingering metallic flavor of what might have been a healthy measure of fear. He slipped out into the night, darkness following. 

Red-lipped and shaking, Abel glared at the door long after he had gone, before pushing his spectacles firmly onto his nose and turning his back on the room that held so many secrets. 

His feet carried him unerringly to where he should have expected to be, lingering outside the Lady Saint's chambers like a ghost that haunted her night and day. An apt description - centuries old, drained of all that had once made him a man, wretched and yearning on the doorstep of a mortal soul. He placed a palm on the worn wood, resting his forehead against it as if he could through the ancient mahogany somehow communicate his desire, his love, the sinful need weighing him down so heavily he thought he would drown in it. His gloved hand slipped away and he turned, leaning his back against the door instead, listening intently for the sound of her breathing, peaceful in sleep. 

On the other side, chamber lit and cheery with candles and the scent of orange oil, Esther looked up from the letters she was writing to Albion, quill aloft and trembling in her hand. "...Hello?" 

It was not a sound, exactly; more an awareness, a shift in the air that called her attention to the door and the stone corridor beyond. The moon was high, servants long since retired to bed, awaiting the dawn chiming of a gilded bell to summon them forth from warm and dreaming sleep. Setting aside her quill, Esther rose quietly, padding in her bare feet across the richly embroidered rug that kept the chill from the floor. She paused at the door, heart pounding with anxious uncertainty. Her slim hand outstretched, trembling, over the latch. "...Father? Is that you?"

Abel said nothing, eyes wide as he stepped away from the door, praying to whatever saint would hear him that she did not venture into the dark to seek him. She was supposed to be sleeping, a woman grown but still a child in repose; she was not supposed to find him here. Indeed, he feared what would happen if he laid eyes on her, all his efforts towards resistance undone in a single moment of weakness. He stepped to the balcony and, effortlessly as the winged being he sometimes was, dropped over the edge and twenty feet to the ground below. 

A moment later, safe beneath the stone overhang, back against the wall of the lower story and his hand over his pounding heart, he heard the heavy chamber door swing open. Esther stared out into the starry night for a long moment, perplexed, before closing the door once more. 

He was gratified to hear her draw the latch and deadbolt before her candle was extinguished. One never knew what monsters stalked such innocence in the dark.


	6. Pulvis Et Umbra Sumus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Fools rush in where angels fear to tread."_
> 
> _**-Alexander Pope** _

Morning's brilliant golden light bathed Rome in its indifferent glow, illuminating the blessed and the shamed alike. Dawn found Abel already venturing forth from his chambers, the dull ache behind his temples nothing compared to the poignant anxiety of spending yet another day in the company of his truest weakness. Fortunately - or unfortunately, as fate would have it - on this particular morning he was to be spared that exquisite pain. Fortuna had a far crueler pastime in mind for him. Robes of deepest black swirling about long strides, he was brought up short at the end of the corridor by a familiar figure in a matching uniform.

"Father Abel Nightroad."

The taller man blinked, pressed his spectacles back up the bridge of his nose with slim fingertips. "Just Abel is fine, Tres."

"Negative. The Duchess of Milan requires your presence."

Abel sighed. "I see. Message received; I'll head over after breakfast." Lean and indestructible though he may have been, his stomach still growled at the thought of food, ravenously hungry as ever. A glutton for punishment, and in general.

"Negative, Father Nightroad." Tres insisted, flat tone leaving no room for dissent. "The Duchess dispatched me 937 seconds ago, with strict instructions to retrieve you without delay. She is expecting you. Now."

Suddenly no longer hungry, Abel felt anxiety sinking into the pit of his belly like a stone. "So that's it, then." He turned; and for a moment the bitter, moody ghost of the young man he had been passed behind his eyes, a shadow darkening pale blue. "Lead on, if you must."

"Positive." If he didn't know better, Abel would have imagined the android priest sounded almost sorry.

Almost.

Disapproval looked regal on Caterina, as most everything did. Her health was delicate still, though not in the steep decline it had once been. She rested on her chaise though it was midmorning, robed in red and perfectly coiffed, but nursing steaming tea in a delicate porcelain cup. Her slender fingers cradling the cup for warmth and the tiny furrow of discomfort between her elegant brows were the only outward signs of her illness. Overall, she merely looked displeased - an expression the priests of AX had grown accustomed to seeing on their leader.

"Thank you, Tres. You may go." She dismissed, something like warmth entering her tone as blue eyes lingered for a moment on the android. Tres inclined his head slightly, the angle calculated with military precision; then turned on his heel and left without a word. In the sudden stillness, Caterina heaved a long-suffering sigh, taking a final sip of her tea before setting it down, unfinished, with an air of regret.

"Abel. Thank you for coming. I feel we haven't had adequate opportunity to speak since your return to Rome. How are you settling in?" Her tone was measured, calm; a woman that commanded respect as effortlessly as breathing. He could not help but admire her, in a way; the frightened girl that had grown into such a composed and authoritative leader. For all that he respected her, however; he could not help the little flame of resentment that licked up the back of his throat when she treated him as merely a tool in her arsenal.

"Caterina, can we skip ahead to the reason you've summoned me before breakfast? I have much to attend to today."

The Duchess turned cool, her cordial manner discarded like a poorly dealt card. "Ah, yes. I understand that your new position is commanding much of your attention."

He faced her squarely, expression as bland as he could make it. He knew it would not be enough. "And what of it? Was it not you that demanded my return to Rome and assigned me to guard the Lady Saint?"

"I'm sure the endeavor has been quite the burden on you." She quipped, tone positively arid. "Surely you couldn't possibly be enjoying a position in such close proximity to our lovely Blessed Queen." Her lips formed the word "queen," but her tone spoke volumes to the contrary.

Abel bristled. "If you feel another is better suited to the task, by all means Caterina, reassign me. Tell me, who do you think could do it better? Leon, perhaps?" Civil as his relations with codename Dandelion may have been, his expression was scathing as he offered up the impossible substitute.

Caterina sighed, one step above rolling her eyes in exasperation. "The girl is the prize of the Vatican and her home country alike, Abel. Any affront to her honor could be cause for military aggression - she's not just your little distraction anymore." Her tone had risen, become sharp and accusatory. The priest did not care for it.

"Is that what bothers you, Caterina? The idea that she was ever, in any capacity, mine?" His voice was as cold as she'd ever heard it, distant and wintry as the northern stars. The Duchess of Milan, crimson-capped Cardinal and Consigliere to the Papal Throne; swallowed and looked away, her own frosty reserve thawed and cowed by his uncommon ire. She was plainly taken aback, but he plowed on, heedless. "You've ordered her death more than once, or did you think I would forget? Jealousy does not become you."

The Cardinal fell silent, looking appropriately chastised. She rarely fell victim to rash decisions, but when one's power is so vast, the accompanying consequences are equally far-reaching. "Abel..."

"No, Caterina." She blinked at his abrupt dismissal. "I have been the Vatican's dog for twenty years, and willingly - but this, I cannot allow. I won't let my weakness be her burden."

"Your weakness?" Her tone expressed puzzlement.

"Yes. All these years, knowing how you felt... And doing nothing to deter you." Caterina blanched, but again he was heedless, tide of truths within him straining against the dam that held them back. "Was it cowardice? Most likely. But I think a part of me also needed it... Needed to feel that I was worthy of admiration... Of love. Even if I could never return it." At last he turned to look at her, clock on the mantle ticking away - her getting older, weaker, while he remained the same - and his smile was dazzling. "From a woman like you, it was so humbling. Like sitting in the sun. You kept me going when all seemed lost. I could never appreciate you enough, Caterina."

"You're right. You couldn't." She admonished, swallowing tears; and removed her pince-nez so they would not magnify her sparkling eyes. Despite her best efforts, she blinked once, long dewy lashes lowered as a single tear rolled down her cheek. When a gloved fingertip traced the line, she flinched, then relaxed into the touch. "Do what you will, Abel." She sighed. "Just don't bring the Church down with you. It's all I have left."

"Not _all_ , Caterina." Abel murmured softly, "I will always be your friend."

"I don't need any friends. What I need are weapons." She said coldly, regaining her composure.

While he knew she didn't mean it, the walls surrounding her vulnerability were high and forbidding and refused all attempts at penetration. His hand dropped to his side, expression regretful. "So be it." He had entered the room like a thunderhead on the horizon, dark and forbidding. He withdrew like the cool breeze after a storm, of the sort that makes all who feel it a little lonely, and longing for the open wilds.

Caterina remained very still in the silence that filled the void he left, tears glimmering in blue eyes. Composing herself, she smoothed hands over the rich excess of her scarlet robes, forcing them to refrain from trembling. Tapping the intercom on her desk, she summoned Tres and proceeded with the business of the day.

+++

Though Abel had longed for the sight of her face, particularly after his less-than-pleasant confrontation with the Duchess of Milan; Esther was nowhere to be found that morning. As it turned out, she was being kept in seclusion, at rest and in prayer in preparation for a night tour of the surrounding city that had been planned as part of her welcoming celebration. As the events were taking place after sundown, the priest found himself at loose ends - his services were not required, and he felt the deep burning resentment that had become so unpleasantly familiar as he watched the Count of Memphis join her in the decorated carriage that would bear them beyond the city limits.

It was a special evening - Esther had been campaigning for years to see the Lady Maria, Gyula's beloved wife, canonized by the church. While she had known the vampire count for only a brief time and could not be sure of his wishes, she felt in her heart that he craved recognition for his wife, a pure and honest soul with an abundance of love to share, not only with her own people but with the Methuselah as well. Her sainthood was an important step towards mending the rift between the Vatican and the Methuselan empire - for a woman so beloved by Methuselah to become a canonized saint was a powerful gesture indeed. Upon hearing of Esther's arrival in Rome, the few Methuselah struggling to eke out a living on the continent, outside the welcoming bosom of the Empire, traveled as pilgrims do to meet her and praise her contributions towards a lasting peace. A warm welcome was expected, Ion traveling with her as a mere formality - more imperial emissary than bodyguard.

"It's a shame Father Nightroad couldn't attend," the Lady-Saint said wistfully, gazing out the window into the darkened treeline as it swept past. "Maria's legacy was important to him as well."

Ion curled his lip, clearly distasteful. "I feel the occasion would not be greatly improved by the presence of one more papist."

Esther looked askance at him, puzzled by the animated hostility he displayed. "I don't understand the animosity between the two of you. He would gladly give his life for yours, or mine - he is a good man."

Ion chuckled quietly. "It is not his life I'm interested in, merely the choices he makes with it. Tell me, why are you so interested?"

But she had no opportunity to answer, for at that moment, a terrible crunching sound met his sensitive ears - the scream of wheels on gravel, attempting a turn too fast to be possible. The carriage overturned in an instant, Esther tumbling from her seat and striking her head upon the carved wood counterpane.

 _How impractical!_ Ion seethed, the trappings of the ridiculous vehicle stoking his ire as he encircled the Lady-Saint's narrow waist with both arms and leapt from the carriage. In the ensuing seconds, the absurd thing burst into flames, rich silk curtains and upholstered benches within going up like kindling.

The vehicle that had struck them - an infinitely more durable-looking military convoy, standard to Albion's military but painted black - had backed up a few feet, and the driver's door was thrust open, a brawny head and torso emerging. Arms still around the unconscious Queen, Ion hissed, expression as savage as he could make it. "I'd stop there, Terran," he snarled, man's silhouette muddy but clearly gleaming with sweat in the light of the fire. He did not anticipate such an easy victory, but the aggressor returned to his vehicle, peeling away down the dirt road in a billow of dust. The Count had no time to contemplate the oddity of this behavior, as Esther was turning pale, the wound at her temple bleeding freely.

It was a perhaps uncommonly known fact that Methuselah blood had curative properties for its parent race, and was highly sought after in some cruel but enlightened circles. Gasping at the sharp sting, Ion tore open his wrist with sharp fangs, pressing the wound with its flow of dark blood to Esther's parted lips. A few agonizing seconds passed, and though he could hear her heartbeat over the crackling of the flaming wreck he was sure he had lost her. Then she gasped, her eyes fluttering open, and her fingers encircled his wrist in a mimicry of his own barely a week ago, swallowing greedily. Ion stifled a groan, the brightness of her eyes and blood on her mouth - _h_ _is blood_  - inciting a fire within to match the one already burning. As her consciousness returned she released him, and he hastily shifted back onto his heels, adjusting his tunic to conceal the uncomfortably sudden erection he had no desire to explain. He could not resist, however, sweeping his blood from her lower lip with a fingertip, her mouth plush and open softly to receive. He knew the memory would be a thorn in the priest's side, and the ugly petty part of him that had no place in a noble of the Empire couldn't wait to share it.

"Ion...?" Esther was dazed, returned to consciousness but only just. Still, her concern was clear in her voice and in the way her fingers tightened on his healing wrist as she held it away from herself. _Am I to become a Methuselah, now?_

"Rest, Lady Saint," he admonished her gently. "It would take more than this to change your nature. What's a little blood between friends?" And she trusted him, and so her eyes slipped closed and he watched over her repose as the fire burned higher and they awaited the Duchess' rescue crews to arrive and retrieve them. Her nature would remain unchanged, it was true... Most Terrans, if they were able to accept the change, required more than one exposure to the Methuselan strain before succumbing. What he did not say was how even then her scent was different, stronger; her color somehow more fair and more vivid, eyes in the firelight more lustrous than ever.

Ion sighed, allowing her sleeping form to be taken from his arms and into the careful custody of the Vatican guards as they arrived with medics and transport home. The Terrans seemed oblivious to the change in their most treasured princess, but their senses were dull and muted at the best of times. There was no chance whatsoever that the priest would remain in the dark.

He was a dead man.

+++

Caterina favored efficiency above all; which is how, the following day, all members of AX residing in Rome found themselves summoned to the courtyard outside her administrative office. New assignments were to be handed out, as soon as her Grace could be troubled to join them. The sun shone mercilessly down, shadows short and seeming to quail beneath the melting heat. Abel took shelter in a gazebo with a handful of his fellow weapons, the other men chatting jovially as the afternoon wore on.

Esther entered the courtyard from the west entrance, the sun gleaming on her titian hair and the white of her AX-issued habit blinding him for a moment. When the spots on his vision cleared, he gasped audibly.

The girl was subtly but undeniably changed, eyes bright beneath the parasol she carried to shield her fair and glowing skin from the sun. The habit she wore, such a familiar sight, now seemed to accentuate her natural curves rather than conceal them. Most notable of all was her easy confidence, a glittering allure that drew virtually every gaze in the courtyard.

"What in the name of god happened to Esther?" Leon blurted irreverently, as always the first one to say what was on everyone's mind. All eyes in the gazebo rested on the Lady-Saint, her sudden appearance like the candle flame that slew so many hapless moths. Her scent was so much stronger than usual... Abel's fangs emerged in spite of himself; sliding over the astonished pout of his lower lip, cutting his quick-healing skin and tinging the air with the ozone aroma of Krusnik blood. It could be only one thing, to change her so drastically and yet not at all. _Methuselah._ The nanomachines in his blood insisted eagerly, and he could not disagree. Methuselan blood had crossed her lips, he could almost taste it himself.  _Hungered_ for it.

Leon chattered on, stumbling over himself in his attempt to articulate what he was seeing to his companions in the shade of the gazebo. The Professor, however, was watching Abel, expression concerned. The monster under the cassock was showing, eyes hungry and glinting scarlet behind their obligatory glasses, droplet of blood trembling on his mouth beneath a single white, razor-sharp point. One gloved hand rested over his own heart, as if counting his shallow breaths, but the Professor had a feeling the priest was waging an inner battle, bidding the monster stay hidden.

"Abel." A pause. "Abel."

Nightroad looked at him, abject in his torment, unable even to pretend ignorance. He would have been almost pitiable; if he didn't also seem so deadly.

"You should go."

Abel nodded, rose to his feet with the barest grimace. Pastoral black covered over a multitude of sins, for which he was more grateful than ever, but the blood on his mouth was perhaps more telling, slanted eyes glinting ruby giving him away. _Monster._ He swept out of the courtyard with not even a backward glance, destination clearly in mind.

_He is a dead man._

+++

" _Why?_ " Abel snarled, bursting into his quarters and not at all surprised to find the Count there. He slammed the door and approached in two long strides, looming over Ion like a specter of doom. " _Why would you feed her?_ "

"She was wounded," the golden prince replied, waving a hand as if it were a matter of no consequence, knowing the insipid gesture would madden Nightroad. Every word was a gilded lie, but each hit home like a perfectly aimed blessed bullet. "Though I suppose I could have left her to bleed by the roadside if I'd known you'd be this upset. What's the matter, did you not like your surprise?"

The smaller man rose to his feet easily, dwarfed by the furious priest but somehow relaxed. Ion drew close, inhaling the pheremones rolling off the other man, feeling the heat radiating out from the lean frame cloaked in black wool. He bared his teeth more than a little mockingly, hand lightly falling to rest, as if by accident, on the pronounced bulge beneath the layers of heavy black. Abel hissed, drawing back, and in an instant Ion was sliding up the wall like a puppet, one taloned hand around his throat.

"Too bold, count of Memphis," he hissed in a voice that was more Krusnik than priest.

The Count was the picture of calm despite being hoisted aloft. "I thought we had become more intimate. I'm hurt, father Abel." He teased coolly.

"Don't you have anything better to do?" Abel growled, releasing his grip and letting the vampire prince drop to the floor.

"I am her majesty's blade, not a parade sword to be bandied about the papal state." Ion retorted sharply, fangs flashing. "With no enemies to dull my edge, those who handle me carelessly will be cut." But he turned to gaze out the window, eyes on the velvet blue of the moonlit hills on the distant Campagna, and it was clear he was thinking of Radu.

And suddenly Abel had no fight left in him. "Go home, Ion." He uttered, tone nearly dolorous. "Or wherever it is that you go when you're not haunting me."

"Same place we all go," Ion said cryptically, and hopped down from the balcony, sauntering down the corridor below with a wave. "Be seeing you."


	7. Principiis Obsta (et Respice Finem)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Oh lord, give me chastity, but do not give it yet."_
> 
> _**-St. Augustine** _

"You know you can't help yourself, priest." Ion mocked relentlessly, holding out a single elegant finger, the tip of which held a gleaming drop of blood. He'd stalked Abel to the confessional armed with nothing but a single silver needle, of the type used to create the elegant embroidery so prized in the Empire. His lilting, aristocratic voice gave him instantly away, and when the screen slid furiously open, he'd pricked his finger and proffered it to the Father fuming on the other side. _The princess and the dragon... Or rather, the princeling and the beast._  A blood sacrifice, spilled on the altar of an illegitimate god.

Abel eyed the glimmer of crimson, bright red easily visible to his nocturnal eyes despite the shadows that cloaked the confessional. He'd vehemently resisted his assignation here, knowing that placing the beast in a cage so near to the sins and secrets of others would only strain his control. The Count, of course, had long since caught the scent of his weakness, and always knew where to find him. And yet...

Ion stretched forward, scarlet-tipped digit nearly touching the priest's lips. "Be a shame to waste it." He murmured, eyes all but glowing crimson in the scant light. The scent of him was strong, alluring; copper and roses drawing the Krusnik out as surely as slaughter.

Abel made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, all too aware of the penetrating and ever-present eye of God. The weight of guilt and his own wretched hypocrisy pressed down on him like a cross; here more than ever aware of his sins. He leaned forward, ruby eyes sliding shut behind their round lenses dully gleaming, and sealed his lips around the freshly bleeding offering.

The memory hit him almost instantaneously, body and mind now accustomed to working in synchronous synergy to deliver this, his most deplorable addiction. Lost in someone else's hoarded thoughts, he did not hear Ion moan, did not notice the way the elegant hand not trapped in his mouth pressed firmly over embellished silk, slim thighs pressing together in acute discomfort. He saw only Esther, supine and soporific on the roadside; a trickle of her own precious carmine nectar tracing the delicate curve of her face. She readily accepted the gift of blood, greedy for it, instantly stirred beneath its dark influence... Abel stifled a groan, fangs growing long and sharp; and the Count seized the opportunity to snatch his hand back before he lost more than his dignity to the silver-haired demon.

What followed was the long, deep silence of mutual shame, penetrated only by soft and ragged breathing, synchronous on either side of the ornately carved divider. Into the velvet quiet, full of mutual resentment and secrets kept, Abel spoke. "Sooner or later, Count of Memphis, every man is accountable for his sins." Caged in the confessional beneath the watchful eye of God, it was the best condemnation he could muster. Still, his throat closed tight on the hypocrisy of it, recollection fresh and copper-sweet.

Ion chuckled dryly. "Maybe someday, priest. But not today." Slipping from the enclosure, he left Abel to shoulder the burden of transgression alone. 

The priest slipped from the chapel, self-consciously tugging at his robes; again the ill-fitting mask sliding down into place, handsome placid features turned east to the sun and prepared to face the day for him. Sins of carnality aside, he had an appointment to keep. It wouldn't do to keep his charge waiting. 

Esther paced before her door, rosary tight in slim fingers and white skirts swishing against the stone floor. Unable to stand the silence of her chambers for even one moment longer, she had exited to await her escort in the outdoor corridor beyond, where at least the sound of birdsong and distant murmur of human chatter greeted her ears. The morning was bright, dawning with nary a wisp of white marring the piercing blue, and she knew that by noon the pleasant breeze would have died in the air and the city would be sweltering. Even the birds would be silent then. 

She was so nervous in his presence, something in the priest's bearing since his return to the Vatican hinting at a darkness with which she had only a passing acquaintance. There was so much of him that was unknown to her, unknowable - and yet there were moments she felt him staring at her, _through_ her, as if she were a snow maiden crafted from glass. She had always felt protected, having him near, and that feeling of safety and reliability had given rise to her own fantasies, rich and rife in an idle mind. Now... She felt as the roe must feel, scenting wolf in the woods. He made her feel _hunted_. It sent a shiver up her spine that was not entirely dissimilar from the hot lick of pleasure. Her cheeks flushed, she shook her head to dispel the image of scorching pale blue, and a hand fell lightly on her shoulder. Stifling a squeak with a white-gloved fist pressed to her mouth, Esther whipped around. 

"Something on your mind?" Abel asked, eyes squinted slightly against the glare of the sun, tone as cheery as the morning demanded and certainly not at all affected by the way her skin turned a deeper rose as wide eyes ran reflexively over his person, stem to stern. 

"Not at all!" Esther said a little breathlessly, with a toneless little laugh. He found her silly, she knew; imagined the vague exasperation etched in every sanguine line of him. Would have run screaming if she could have even for a moment sensed his true thoughts, and Abel blessed her for her obliviousness. She hastened on, tongue tripping over itself in an attempt to clear her good name. "Just eager to get a head start. It's shaping up to be a hot one."

The priest considered his allies, his keepers - Caterina, alone and courting bigger dangers in her ivory tower; and the Count locked away in his dark dungeon, safe from the sun's punishing rays. And him, alone with the princess. No one left to guard his monster today - he would have to guard it himself. This was not entirely correct, as he would discover sometime later - but the narrow gleam of a high-powered rifle was difficult to detect from a distance, even for his preternatural eyes. He stared down at her, expression perhaps graver than the occasion warranted. "To be sure." After too long a beat, he cleared his throat and turned, one extended hand proffering the path he had previously barred. "Shall we be off, then?"

The air was still and humid as they crossed the Basilica, Esther's hand lightly on his arm as if out for a romantic stroll. If there was any impropriety in the gesture it was concealed beneath the sacrosanct uniforms they both wore... And Esther's strangely pale face, turned away from the sun; hinting at infirmity or dark magic. She regretted declining her maids' offer of a parasol. The first part of her tour, greeting the common citizens of Rome and extending her coveted blessing, was to be completed on foot - her feet ached already in their low-heeled, lace-up boots, more so when Abel withdrew to a respectful distance and allowed her to do her duty to Church and country. No one was here to see him. 

Touring the city was hard on her - heroism came naturally to the little nun only when no one was looking. The flash and glitter of camera lenses, staring like so many wide, naked eyes, was uncomfortable in a way she had never grown accustomed to. The crowd within the city followed her as she walked in state from cathedral to chapel to shrine. Abel stayed near, a looming shadow in silver and black, round glasses reflecting the blameless blue sky inscrutable and somehow more imposing than usual. He squinted behind them, blinding white of her gown - a demure style cut in homage to both her once-cherished habit and the royal garb of Albion - brilliant and burning beneath the summer sun. 

The morning wore on, sweat trickling down Esther's back between her winged shoulder blades. The lace of her collar and petticoat stuck to her skin uncomfortably and she spared a thought, between cheerful smiles and waves to the people of Rome, for Abel - wondering if he was suffering equally in his robes of black. Her farewell speech to the holy district was brief but kind, a gesture of magnanimity for people that would have adored her had she said nothing at all. A final farewell, the most graceful of waves blessing the crowd, and she stepped down from the dais in the square and suffered herself to be bundled off into the cool sanctity of shadow.

Sliding into the sleek black interior of the limousine was a blessing in and of itself, an escape from the merciless Mediterranean sun. The blast of cool air that suffused the luxuriant cabin, wafting like a heavenly breeze from the cleverly concealed vents built into the vehicle's side panels, was rapture itself. Esther slumped back against the leather seat, fanning herself with what looked suspiciously like a prayer card. Reverence has a time and a place - the sweltering heat of midsummer was neither. 

The dark cool hermetically sealed chamber within the car was like the sanctuary of a hidden cave after a stretch of scorching desert. For a moment, sensitive eyes watering slightly as his pupils slowly contracted, Abel could see nothing - and that was a blessing. He removed his spectacles, polishing the spotless lenses absently as he blinked in the semi-darkness. Once again glancing up to observe his little ward, he swallowed and immediately looked away, feigning great interest in the itinerary scrolling down the tablet that rested in his lap. Esther was seemingly oblivious to this, road-weary as she already was after the stifling heat of mid-morning. He tried very hard to avoid looking at her, well aware that even a glance in the enclosed space put him at immense risk of exposure. Her lips were softly parted, breaths coming in shallow pants against the uncomfortable constraints of a tightly-laced corset, courtesy of the Cardinal's maids who were on loan and accustomed to a mistress of somewhat more rigid bearing. Hands trembling minutely, he poured a glass of bubbling mineral water from the chilled crystal decanter left as if in offering within the car's sleek sideboard, and passed it to her. Esther smiled at him - a small, sincere thing, and especially for him - and sipped gratefully. 

"There were so many people..." She murmured, voice a little faint and trailing off at the end; clearly overwhelmed. Her young features looked tired, normally bright blue eyes a little dull in the tinted light slanting through the limousine's windows. "I find it a little hard to believe that they're all here just to see me."

Abel smiled slightly, fingertips tapping the sensitive touch-screen on the itinerary tablet. "You'd be surprised, the effect you have on people." Again, too long a pause elapsed; and clearing his throat softly - unnecessarily - he continued. "There's only one stop left, a small historical chapel. It will take some time to reach it - rest for now."

Soothed as ever by his voice, his reassuring presence; Esther nodded vaguely and let her eyes slip closed. The limo bore them to the outskirts of the city, ride smooth and quiet, lulling limbs suddenly heavy with drowsiness. 

A gentle touch on her arm had the Lady-Saint, battle-hardened, once again awake and smoothing her skirts in readiness. The sun was much lower in the sky but still blazing ferociously orange as they emerged refreshed from the Cardinal's Stygian conveyance; the people of the holy city's poorer district peering inquisitively out of their doorways and from second-story windows. A small crowd was gathered before the chapel where a blessed saint had once perished - notable as all children of the faith are, the group was nonetheless markedly smaller than the surging masses that had appeared within the city proper. God did not have a strong foothold here, in the realm of mangy thin dogs, haggard women and children with dirty faces. One such child, a cherubic little thing in a loose grey dress doubtless handed down from an older sibling, stepped forward as the Vatican entourage approached and knelt, offering the lady-saint a flower, a lily - a rare thing in these quarters. Its stem was bent, leaves and petals wilting a little - it gave an overall impression of being crumpled, as if clutched tight to a narrow chest and sped across the city to be held out here, a gift for a princess from her lowliest subjects. Fingertips quavering a little, as if with unworthiness, Esther accepted the flower with tremulous gratitude and tucked it into the loops of chain on her rosary, her eyes glimmering, she swallowed tears as she laid her hands on the child's tousled, dirty fine hair and blessed her. Wherever he had strayed previously, God's presence was here now - filling the little maid from head to toe with earnest sacredness as she shared his love with the assemblage of outcasts.

Abel thought he'd never seen anything so beautiful in all his long, long life. It made him feel soiled and wretched by comparison; worn down and stained by centuries of wandering, bad choices and mistakes. His very touch would stain her just as dark, destroy her by association. He yearned to touch her. _Monster._

She withdrew from the small crowd, hands folded in piety and at rest, having blessed all those that came forward to receive. As they made their way through the narrow streets back to where the car waited, Abel peered into darkened windows and scanned rooftops. His presence seemed superfluous - throughout the entire, excruciatingly hot day, no one had greeted the Lady-Saint with anything but adoration. Perhaps the attackers really were vampires, Imperial malcontents who resented the burgeoning relationship between nations but not enough to venture out into the sunlight. Perhaps, whoever they were, they feared Abel's presence - tall and lean and clearly armed, gleaming six-shooter at his hip - more than the slim, slight, fair and fairly diaphanous Count of Memphis. Or, just perhaps, they took note of the metallic glimmer of a long-range scope, trained unerringly on Albion's queen and tracking her every move - and his. He spotted Tres, no more than a dark figure - some mechanical gargoyle on his perch, an unerring Grigori brought low and turned to stone to watch with infinite patience over his mortal charges - the sniper easily a hundred meters away tucked beneath an aged belfry. The Cardinal's faithful watchdog, supervising his behavior with the Church's most precious asset. A chaperone, indeed. _Low, Caterina._ Wise, Caterina. The roiling rainclouds finally, mercifully, rolling in low over the city matched his dark mood as they clambered once again into the car and were borne homeward. 

The car returned them thence without incident - it was their departure from said vehicle, and its stoic driver, that brought disruption. Almost as soon as their boots had alighted on the cobblestone of the Basilica, the threatening clouds burst, pouring forth a deluge that was, in comparison to the tight, wavering heat of the day, an embarrassment of riches. Puddles formed around the sunken bases of marble statues almost instantly, pigeons taking flight and huddling, wet and outraged, in dovecotes with their domesticated brethren. Misfortune makes for strange bedfellows. At Esther's gasp, part delight and part shock at the sudden splash of cold against her skin; Abel removed the outer layer of his cassock and draped it around her shoulders, an ineffective shield against the downpour. 

Here at last, and despite the android's precise machinations; they lost their tail by sheer coincidence. As water fell like a voluminous blessing from the heavens, Esther picked up her skirts and bolted like a girl-child in a foot race. Abel's long strides hastily caught her up and would have passed her, but they had reached her room and she doubled up, gasping, leaning against the solid door. Her chest heaved as she caught her breath, cheeks flushed, sapphire eyes sparkling bright; and she tossed her head back and laughed, Titian hair tousled and gleaming in the sunburst that broke through the capricious clouds. Abel merely stared, drinking in the sight of her, silent for fear he would swallow his heart in his throat. 

As laughter died away, an insidious awareness crept in. The morning's meeting, its quivering energy haunting the spot where they stood, rested heavy and unspoken. Low and steady beneath the now-distant thunder and the trickling of water from the rooftops, the tension between them hummed like a sustained note, just below audible. Abel hesitated outside her door, aware - painfully - of how she looked - drenched and trembling a little, dwarfed by his cassock and his height beside her; alluringly vulnerable and waiting for him to speak. He heard the words leave his mouth but could not remember deciding to utter them. "I think we should talk."

Large eyes meet his, smile luminous and nakedly adoring. "I... I would like that." Thus would she break him, with smiles and tenderness. 

The heavy door shut out the world and its various concerns, for a little while. Footsore and shivering a little, Esther hung his cloak over a spindly chair near the hearth as he built up the fire for her; tall, lean-muscled frame performing the action with an ease that was deceiving considering how infrequently it was performed. The Father Nightroad did not exert himself towards undue comforts within his own chambers. The resulting merry blaze set to work drying damp black wool; but her gown was a lost cause. 

"Your cloak should be dry soon," Esther commented, a little tentative. 

"Keep it." Abel returned, "It suits you." He risked a glance at her, white linen of her dress heavy with rainwater and clinging to her slim body; and she folded her arms either in chill or chastity or both. _Temptationem._

"Let me change." The room was of an open design, as was popular for palatial chambers in the era it was built. She slipped behind a tall, ornate screen; etchings of tigers and herons - empire symbols, forsooth - hiding her form from him... Thank God. She unhooked and unlaced, fresh air blessedly sweet as she shucked off the corset and slipped into a shift of empire silk and an embroidered Albionese nightrobe trimmed with ermine - a little much for a summer night, but the sudden storm had chilled her and left her skin prickling with gooseflesh. At least, it was simpler to blame the storm. Bare feet, pale and dainty, padded across cool stone and thick plush carpet as she returned to the circle of light and warmth by the fire, gazing up at him expectantly.

For a moment he couldn't speak, heat from the conflagration in the hearth matching the one in his veins and he knew he was blushing, grateful for the play of shadow and light afforded by the flames as he stood with his back to the hearth, hiding from the light. Esther seated herself opposite him, bare feet tucked up under her in a childish posture of comfort and ease, plainly expecting him to do the same. He hesitated for a long, pregnant pause; expression studiously blank in profile though tension and uncertainty dripped from him like rainwater. He permitted himself a hesitation, a narrow human interval between two tiger heartbeats, prolonging the moment he could linger here by the fire with her by his side, far from the harsh realities and obligations of the outside world. Finally, her patient gaze broke his silence for him. "Esther... Is there anything you would like to tell me?" _How long since your last confession?_

She had known him for too long. The trend of his thoughts; deciphered there on his face, noble features in a paroxysm of indecision - she read his questions on his face before he spoke them. She matched his silence, weighing her response; yet all silences are eventually broken. Her words were vague, skirting the issue with the skill of the world leader she had been forced to become. "It is likely I will never wed, never bear children of my own..." And this was true, the people would not stand for the Lady-Saint, a holy maiden, to become first a mother, and someday a dowager queen. She was to be a shining example of purity, married to her country and her ideals - a reincarnation, in point of fact, of another virgin queen, entombed alive in stiff layers of lavish white, in the kingdom Albion had been long ago - Elizabeth I, Queen of England. Elizabeth, too, had been a star of hope for her people; a passionate woman that burned fiercely and bright - and she, too, had been forced to love secretly and in the dark. Esther lit a candle, rose to pacing, and silently he rose too; sensing danger like the animal he was. The glow of her candle illuminated her delicate face and slender swan's neck in profile, and from the most shadowed corner of the room pale eyes caught the light and cast it back. Predator eyes. She did not stretch her arms overhead as she wished to, did not loosen the sash on her nightrobe despite the long day of sophisticated confinement in other, more formal garb. She tried to avoid tempting him.

She failed.

Abel swallowed, attempting to soothe the resentment and frustration flowing like the tide beneath her skin. " _Mea culpa_ , Esther. I would have spared you all this." He even spread his hands a little, in a gesture of false innocence, supplication to the Lady-Saint.

She shook her head, expression a little bitter. "It's my duty. I strive to be worthy of it."

 _Indeed._ "You should know better than most how duty leaves a bitter taste in the mouth." He pressed gently, drawing nearer. _I heard,_ he wanted to tell her; to whisper, to howl. _I know._

"I do." She nodded, as if relinquishing with great reluctance a chess piece she had cherished. "But I don't think that I can be held accountable for what's said in confidence." She very tactfully avoided the word confession. He admired her diplomacy.

Suddenly reckless, casting down into dust the trappings of the angels, Esther closed the distance between them - crushing underfoot his image of her as the damsel in distress, the little girl with feelings too big for her. She tilted her face up to his, taking his stunned silence as consent, as a chink in the armor already partially removed - the white starch of his shirt peeking through, a demarcating line. "And you, Father? What's on your mind? What do you strive for?"

She was so close, he breathed in the air she exhaled, the sweetness of her lips so close he ached with the effort of stillness. He bowed low like a penitent in prayer, so small was she beside him; his silver locks hiding the depth and darkness in his eyes. He raised a hand, white gloved fingertips looking for a moment as if they would brush the strands of scarlet from her cheek, then lowered it and looked away, taking a half-step back. "Attrition," he muttered, offering the same awkward half-smile that had accompanied her sinking disappointment many times. "For my many sins." He bowed, backing away still further. "Excuse me, Esther. You must be exhausted. I'll bid you goodnight. The Count will be on duty soon."

And, like a summer storm, as quickly as it had come it was over. He slipped from the room, a spirit self-exorcised, banished into the cool damp night of his own accord. Esther raised slim fingertips to softly parted lips, as if remembering the kiss that had not happened. "Oh," she said to the suddenly empty room, eyes welling with unshed tears of frustration. She cast off her heavy dressing robe and made to put out the lamp, sniffling a little forlornly, when her eyes fell on the cassock still hanging by the door. _It suits you._ Wrapping herself in it, she burrowed deep within the heavy duvet. The coarse black cloth still smelled of him; rain and abnegation.


	8. Advocatus Diaboli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _The mind is its own place and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven._
> 
> _**\- John Milton** _

The scroll came with the sunset, a courier in silks and slippers treading lightly across the city to the Basilica and the private dark-curtained rooms where the Count of Memphis held his lonely court. A solitary creature, Ion accepted the missive with a curt thanks and the expected payment, dismissing the messenger without inquiring after his homeland. The letter, he was sure, would contain all the information he required.

And it did - a brief, cordial but not overly embellished note requesting his return home. Her Majesty the Empress had need of his services, a small-framed and easily disguised young Methuselah capable of slipping with great alacrity in and out of the homes of her enemies. The Vatican would have to bear up under the weight of his absence - Ion sneered at the thought. He was sure they would manage. He planned his departure for sunset the following day - but first, some business to attend to.

The grey light of early morning, dawning pale and drizzling, called Abel reluctantly forth from his sleepless bed and out into the unwelcoming world. He dressed, long robes trimmed in white yet still, overwhelmingly, black - the color of his sin and the trappings of his penitence, all in one. Clacking on stone, reports of his long strides echoed off the quiet walls of the Basilica as he crossed to the cathedral, a few intrepid early birds starting up in flight at the sound. Matins - and all its attendant vestral duties - came early. It was rare that an acolyte could be pried out of slumber this early in the morning, especially in the heat of summer when tourists and pilgrims alike were keeping to their beds. That suited the priest - he was in no mood for companionship.

Caterina had no doubt allowed him to be posted in the church by way of penance for giving Tres the slip the day before. She could be vindictive in her assignations. His fate could have been worse, however - in the quiet chill of early morning, the chapel was peaceful. He moved about the long, high-vaulted sanctuary, lighting candles with meditative care. A long silence passed, his jangling nerves lulled by the dimly glowing light, only sound the hiss and sputter of thick hemp wicks catching and flaring up. He had taken his solitude for granted, but he gradually became aware of one lone altar boy trailing along on the far side of the room; trimming candlewicks with feminine, unpracticed hands. The lad was short and slight and clearly sleepy, hood of his modest eucharistic serving robe pulled up over his face to hide his bleary eyes from inquisitive priests and hopeful parishioners alike.

"Bless me father, for I have sinned..." he murmered, turning his back on the narthex and drawing nearer to the father, pale hands folded neatly and patiently awaiting absolution.

Abel glanced in surprise at the acolyte in the pale gold robe, the sacristy staff in his hands swaying unsteadily as he turned to look. Only a boy, overburdened by the caprices of adolescence. It had been many years since he could relate. "The time for confession is later, have patience." The priest admonished tiredly, not wishing to hear the woes of whatever penitent they'd saddled him with.

And then he saw the flash of crimson beneath the hood.

The brass-capped staff clattered to the floor, wick blessedly guttering out against the ancient flagstones, and the vampire leapt backwards nimbly as Abel lunged for him, fingertips closing on open air. The hood fell back from a mane of platinum hair as the youthful figure perched on the back of a choir pew several rows removed from the altar, smirking. Abel scowled. _Of course._

"You're so tense, Nightroad." The Prince of Moldova greeted mockingly. "Don't you Vaticani enjoy having beautiful boys follow you about with wide eyes, spilling their guts?" He mimed contrition, fluttering his feathery lashes, hands folded in prayer - the gesture now clearly mocking.

Abel was not amused. Suddenly he was stiflingly close, black robes blotting out the candlelight, fingers fisting in gold cloth and hauling the slight vampire off his feet. "Confession is for the penitent, Ion Fortuna. Are you penitent?" His usually mellow tenor was very near a growl.

"I have my regrets." Ion returned calmly, plucking the priest's hand from his robes and dropping to the floor lightly as a sprite. He was quickly growing accustomed to being airborne whilst in Nightroad's presence. "Do you?"

Abel eyed him narrowly, lips pressed in a thin line. " _Actus me invito factus non est meus actus._ "

The Imperial sneered at his flimsy defense. "I thought as much." Ion quipped. "Relax, I come bearing gifts." He handed over two small glass vials, each darkly carmine in the low light. Abel accepted them with a tentative hand, palm outstretched but uncertain - Adam grasping the forbidden fruit. Ion's garnet eyes gleamed.

"I've been summoned home for the next several weeks to attend my grandmother and her Majesty the Empress, so you won't be able to bleed the sacrificial lamb, poor Vatican dog." At Abel's sharp look Ion batted him playfully under the chin, laughing. "Enjoy yourself for once, priest - I'd hate for you to have to do something drastic..." He eyed him slyly, "Such as going to the source."

Patrician features contorted in a venomous glare; but the Prince did not miss the gloved hand tucking his small gifts safely away beneath black wool, fingers trembling a little. A man of deeply conflicting truths, it seemed. Shrugging off the priest's speechless anger, Ion continued breezily, as if discussing seasonal sartorial trends and not the ultimate destiny of the woman they both loved. "I'm merely pointing out, priest, that there's a target painted fresh on her back every day. One of the most recognizable and polarizing figures on the planet, wouldn't you agree?" He leaned back against a carved column bearing up the pulpit, thin arms crossed. "And even if she's never murdered by extremists or her own beloved Church, one day she'll grow old and die. Are you truly content, loving her this way? An icon locked up in a reliquary? Why not... give fate a little push?" _Why not tell her, coward? As I did? Why not turn her, if you can?_ He sneered a little at the thought, pink lips curving up in disdain. "Can you even do it? Or are you as impotent as you seem to be?"

Abel's eyes were wide behind round glass, pale even to his bloodless lips as he mouthed soundlessly, "What?" As if the idea had never occurred to him. As if it were the most unholy of sacrilege. But now that it had been spoken aloud, he could feel it taking root in the fertile soil of his ugly mind and growing like a weed. _Monster._

"Think about it, Father." Ion jeered. "You're the oldest being alive. Centuries older than the oldest of us, if the legends are to be believed. I'm sure you've tasted more than your share of loss." Personally the Count looked a little doubtful; but the priest, still struck mute, was in no position to allay his apprehensions. The place in his heart where Lilith had once quietly dwelled echoed the sentiment with a sharp stab. "What will you do when you lose her? Can you stand it?"

Still, Abel said nothing; feeling as if all the oxygen had been pulled not only from his body but from the chapel as well.

"Be honest, Father. This is a house of God." With that, Ion made his exit, slipping silently through the pews, gold robes fading away into the shadows. Abel let him pass, thoughts churning like the choppy waves of the proverbial wine-dark sea. He lit the remaining candles and passed the colored stole of eucharistic sacrament off to an initiate passing by, suddenly mute and no longer willing or able to lead a congregation in worship. The two vials secreted away all but burned against his heart, branding him a sinner as surely as a scarlet letter. 


	9. Peccavi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"'Tis one thing to be tempted... Another to fall."_
> 
>  
> 
> _**-Measure for Measure, Act II** _

Esther sighed, small hands smoothing out the parchment of a note she had unwittingly crumpled. Ion would be traveling to the empire, the butter-soft paper informed her, in its elegant strokes of black ink. Without the golden prince at her side, the young queen felt much less confident navigating the social obligations of her diplomatic mission. It was Ion's experience and natural grace that had been thus far buoying her inept attempts at statesmanship - Caterina Sforza was determined to wring all the diplomatic advantage from this pilgrimage that she possibly could. Esther was innocent in a way that defied all she had been through; maintaining her faith in the essential good of others despite their many attempts to prove her wrong. For all her inherent faith, however, she was wise enough to realize that the Duchess of Milan had no love for her. The woman had evinced a thinly concealed dislike from the moment they'd met; and though the Lady-Saint respected the Cardinal and the position she held, she could not call her a friend.

She frowned at the distorted reflection in her gilded spoon, picking at her breakfast. The maids had brought her a light meal of fresh fruit, porridge and cold tea when she rang, seeming sleepy and out of sorts and beating a hasty retreat back to the kitchens and the warmth of the hearth and fresh-baked brown bread. She envied them their drowsy camaraderie - sleeplessness had bid her rise early, the watery light of the morning sun still a suggestion lurking beneath the horizon. She drew her robe closer about herself, feeling nearly transparent; emptied of all feelings save one, all preoccupations save that which was ever foremost in her mind.

She hadn't seen him in days, though she'd been looking. Despite his guarded appearance and attempts to appear mundane, he wasn't difficult to spot. None of them were, members of AX as unique as their mission would suggest, and yet... The other priests took liberties with their attire, opting for freedom of movement - both literally and in the abstract - over adherence to the dress code. The Sword Dancer Hugue's arms remained bare, scars and dull sheen of the synthetic skin on his artificial left hand. Dandelion often dispensed with the uniform entirely, complaining that it was scratchy and too warm. Even Tres had been known to make small sacrifices in the name of efficiency. Only Abel garbed himself meticulously in every layer, buttoning away his darkness, doing his best to appear dour, non-threatening, and unworthy of a second glance. A brilliant candle under a rough-woven basket, however, will only burn the bushel to ash; creating a bonfire that draws the eye all the more. The uniform did nothing to hide the tall, lean lines of him; the silver sheen of his hair, delicately boned but still masculine features; the long fingers that spoke volumes, tracing patterns in the air, pushing up his glasses, perpetually in his mouth or teasing at his lower lip distractingly.

Thus passed the morning in dreamy dalliances; Esther feeling indulgent and weak but lacking the energy to begin her day in earnest. She felt unwell, dark circles standing out in her small fair face; her dreams had been full of strong arms and sharp teeth and the taste of copper in  her mouth... She awoke feeling dizzy and without rest. The long-awaited crest of sunrise found her wrapped in her nightrobe still - and a stolen bit of black wool - gazing through her window, watching the pigeons in the square. Across the basilica, a mirror image of her entropy shut within his own chambers; Abel's thoughts ran parallel, thinking of her, prayer a bitter last resort on his lips.

He sighed. _Are you listening? Do you care for these, the humblest of your children?_ Faith was a fragile thing, at times as transparent and brittle as glass. He clothed himself in it, layer upon layer of guilt and regret and self-denial, until it became difficult to tell the difference between himself and God - both were holding him down, painting his wings black with the shame of his true nature, rejecting that nature outright. He was so tired of religion... So tired of himself. _Eloi, eloi; lama sabach thani?_ He had been a young man, once; had experienced the rages and envies of a young man - the loves of a young man, as well. All that was gone now, buried in a past that even he could not recall in vivid color, details blurred and obscured by the dust of time and mistakes.  _Yet still, this hunger._

Night fell over Vatican City, long indigo fingers creeping over the watercolor dusk and dragging a dark velvet curtain across the sky. Ion was off doing his duty; Abel, the golden devil over his shoulder absent, found himself alone - as always. Esther was resting, having pled sick to escape Caterina's machinations for the day... And perhaps, to escape him, as well. He grimaced, though there was no one present in his chambers to witness it. He had been jittery and distracted in her presence, finding it difficult to bear her nearness. He thought back to the luncheon the day before that he had been summoned to guard; and the way he had salivated like a beast at the naked curve of her shoulder bared demurely past the sweep of white silk, embroidered with emerald green. Exquisite craftsmanship, expertly tailored - no doubt another gift from the Empire, and he really _must_ remember to thank his sister for providing his young ward with such a thoughtful and thought-provoking collection of gifts. Diplomatic generosity, indeed. Even the thought of her called forth his more repellent side.

Against his will, his pale eyes skated over the heavy book open on the table - a history of aberrant and apostate behavior in the annals of church history, god help him - and fell unerringly on the twin cylinders resting on the rough wood. He stared at the red liquid in the vials, removing his glasses and setting them aside, pressing fingertips to the bridge of his nose and the space between his brows, trying to ease the dull throbbing there. He could almost taste it, already... It seemed wrong, somehow. For an animal such as him to take such pleasure, however unbidden, in this solitary act. He offered no pretense, no indication that he would not succumb - who was there to lie to, save himself and God? And both of them knew better.

_Leadeth me not into temptation..._

It would be easier, if he couldn't taste it. Less riotously apostate. He pulled a goblet closer, pouring a generous helping of wine from the flagon on the table into its heavy gold depths. After a heartbeat of hesitation, his hand trembling near-imperceptibly, he tipped the vial into the cup, then pulled the goblet towards himself and drank it down, the Vatican's bitter red sacramental wine doing all it could to disguise the nectarous notes of Esther's blood. Still it failed, her pattern there, hidden layer upon layer beneath the fecundity of grapes and Methuselah. His narrow throat worked, gulping it down in one draught, catching the thin red rivulet that ran over his jaw with one fingertip already bearing a talon.

_Deliver me from evil..._

His eyes, already slanted rubies dilating as taste shifted to awareness, slipped shut when the elixir entered his bloodstream.

_Y e s_

He had always been powerless against the sybaritic; weakness in every tortured line and burdensome shadow. He sensed the memory, yawning like an endless abyss before him; and willfully plunged in. Disorientation lasted for but a moment, as he recognized the scene before him - he had never been there, personally; but he compared what he saw to what Esther had divulged to him of the royal quarters in Albion, and found the symmetry aligned. This was the little nun's memory of herself, far removed from friends and consequence, a stranger in a strange land that had always been calling her home.

Indulgence did not come naturally to the Star of Istvan. In the royal palace, she was surrounded by luxury. The foods were too rich, the fabrics too stiff and confining, the wines too strong. She sipped daintily at a chilled glass, and even still felt a little tipsy. But she had dismissed the servants as she did whenever possible, preferring to wait upon herself as she had been raised to do, so there was no one present to watch her small indiscretion. The young queen sank into the bath, a heavy bronze and porcelain affair with sculpted clawed feet and sweet-scented oils creating rainbow patterns on the surface. Steam rose from the still water in curling drifts and she sighed in utter contentment, wriggling her toes. Her body felt boneless, suspended in the weightlessness of the warm water. Watching from his perspective outside reality, sometime in the future when he would receive the hoarded memory, Abel bit his lip and drew blood instantly, pallor of his cheeks stained a vibrant red. He had never seen so much of her skin.

Esther finished her glass, cheeks a little flushed in the heat of the bath, eyes bright. A drop of moisture rolled down from the damp crimson hair at her temple, over her cheek, and she chased it with limp fingertips, hands moving as if of their own accord. Her neck, so slender; tilted back against the porcelain curve of the bathtub, pulse fluttering madly and casting a pinkish glow over delicate white skin, thin and flawless and _fragile_...

A dark tide flooded in, obscuring his vision and yanking him back down to earth. He made a choked sound, his own voice unfamiliar and animal in the gloomy solitude of his room. Before he knew it he had uncapped the second vial and downed it greedily, long agile tongue slipping into the tiny bottleneck and drawing more nectar past his lips. Razor-sharp fangs tapped delicately against the glass with a crystalline scrape, the sound of gluttony; hand over his knee drawing into a fist and piercing layers of black with sharp talons. He swallowed thickly, plunging headlong back into the vision, any strength of will he'd possessed utterly undone.

The scene cleared, Esther's warm fair skin and vibrant hair swimming into his vision again as if through a mirage. It cleared, the young woman standing before a mirror, wrapped in a plush white towel that begged for touch. Rivulets of water dripped slowly from her hair, over the planes of her back, down her slender legs. She gazed at herself, tugging at a lock of hair beside her jaw, one foot turned pigeontoed a little as she examined her figure critically.

"Of course I'm nothing next to the Duchess of Kiev... Or Milan." She muttered, talking to herself as she studied her own reflection. The flagon of wine, a heavy-bellied, clear glass jar that rested on a lushly carved mahogany sideboard, was nearly empty. Albion's princess was going to have a dreadful headache in the morning. But for now the vintage tinted her cheeks prettily, a flush of summer rose creeping over the delicate angles of her face, down over her full decolletage as she tugged impatiently at the towel, a little frown creasing her brow. "I know it's not much to offer, in comparison." She was talking to herself, it seemed, fingertips tracing down the pulsing vein in her throat, over the snowy crest of her collarbone, ball of her thumb chasing a drop of water that trickled down her sternum. "But do you like it, Father? ...Abel?"

For one insane instant, reality lurched and he thought, impossibly, that she had seen him somehow, his ghost haunting her from the future. Her deep blue eyes, a little unfocused, stared into the middle distance; and it took him a long irrational moment to realize that she was addressing the mirror, and not his abject self, watching her reflection through her. But, in a different but more important sense, she _was_ addressing him - imagining his hands on her body. Lately celibate but no lily-white virgin, he knew the look in her eyes.

Abel swallowed hard, a low moan strangling him as he gazed with impunity upon the stolen memory. His beasthood strained at confines both mental and literal, yet to look away was unthinkable. He licked his lips, needle-sharp point of one fang scraping along the length of his tongue and filling his mouth with the taste of blood - his own, familiar and unsatisfying, but whetting darker appetites. He swallowed again, and she dropped the towel, fluffy bundle falling from outstretched fingertips with the quiet rustle of a shifting snowdrift.

"Oh, God." The priest's expression was one of dismay, sharp Krusnik features incongruously stricken. She sank to her knees, plush fabric cradling her as she rocked back on her heels, small hands in double vision, reality and reflection as she caressed her damp skin with a breathy sigh. All ivory and rose, bowing her head - a wilting rose herself, forsooth - when nimble fingers slipped between her thighs and stroked. Her spine curved, a flower stem about to snap, and she stretched forward along the plush carpet, resting her forehead on the prone wrist of her free hand, his name a needy whine in her voice. His vision faded out; a deep velvet black that swallowed him whole as she, in the past, shut her eyes and lost herself. Yet he could _sense_  her still, the thrum of her pulse and scent of her skin; the dark low throb of pleasure... And the sound of her voice when she cried out his name; a high, arching sob.

Thrown violently back into reality,a trespasser cast out from paradise, Abel collapsed beside the table, wine from the shattered jug staining the hem of his robes. He panted, priest kneeling on the unforgiving stone floor a parody of contrition, one hand gripping the wooden edge of the table that had lately borne witness to such sins. "God forgive me," he uttered, sinning once more in the lie - only himself and God were present to hear it, and they both knew better.

+++

There was nowhere in the world quite like the bazaars of the Empire. After disembarking in the harbor, Ion had gone first to greet his grandmother the Duchess of Moldova. She greeted him warmly, tutting over the length of his hair and his complexion in the manner he had come to realize was affection from her. Her Majesty the Empress was busy, she informed him, and he would have to wait.

That suited the prince, who longed to stretch his legs and open his senses to the beauty of the world after too long aboard ship. Arming himself lightly, he descended from his ancestral palace to the market streets below; watery sunshine from the dome that protected the Empire pleasant and long-missed against his skin.

While examining a collection of trinkets - small glass and metalwork oddments that he thought might appeal to Esther as a souvenir - he caught the flash of silvery hair and raised his gaze. _Priest._ His mind hissed, but of course that was ridiculous. To follow him to the Empire, Nightroad would have had to leave the Lady Saint unguarded; and Ion knew - perhaps better than anyone - that such a thing was outside the bounds of credulity. Blondes were in no short supply in the Empire, perhaps he had been mistaken... Then again, there was something about the long, lean profile and gleaming white hair that stirred an awareness in him, a creeping discomfort he felt ill-advised to dismiss. Checking to see that his dagger still hung at his belt, he withdrew from the marketplace in a somber mood and climbed the hill once again to the noble and most ancient house of Moldova.


	10. Hoc Est Corpus Meum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"Black as the devil, hot as hell, pure as an angel, sweet as love."_
> 
> _**\- Charles Maurice de Talley** _

The moon was high when it called Abel from his bed, drawn forth from fitful sleep and crimson-painted dreams by the haunting summons of translucent silver light outside his window. Even the doves were silent, soft cooing muted in slumber as he passed by, a dark shadow in the illuminated courtyard, bare torso white and crisscrossed with pearly scars, crowned in a fall of moonlight. He crossed the basilica like a man in a dream, climbing graven stone steps and wandering across the scrubby tufts of grass tinted blue in the shadows. Small night creatures, locked in their own mortal struggle and thus oblivious to his own, scurried forth from him, fearing this sudden and unknown intruder to their realm. 

The broken tower at the edge of the square, standing toothless and forlorn on a little hillock beyond the stained glass and golden glow of those buildings still in use, had been abandoned for many years. It had been a small chapel to a forgotten saint, once; but the devotees had fallen out of favor with the previous pope and the shrine itself fell into disrepair. It had been neglected before the sonic force of a destructive bell pulled it down in shambles - an incident the Ministry of Holy Affairs was officially calling a freak lightening storm - and had become even more so after. The moon shone down indifferently on the tumbled stones and overgrown vines, and a single figure in white, small against the jagged rearing silhouette of the broken tower. 

She turned at his approach, though his footfalls were silent and he'd offered no greeting. The sight of her convinced him, more than anything else, that he was dreaming, a sleepwalker guided by all that he was unsuccessfully repressing while awake.

"Abel?" She spoke, eyes wide and sparkling with refracted starlight, the soft hushed breeze crossing the courtyard below ruffling her scarlet hair, making the embroidered silk of her nightgown whisper against her skin. The scent of her was a sweet counterpoint to the dusty cold scent of broken stone, the distant edge of ozone and water, threatening rain. He knew it well, too true and familiar and painfully alluring to be imagined - more importantly, she had called him by his Christian name, an indulgence he had never dared expect even in dreams.

He stopped, halting his approach mere paces from her, fingertips at his sides curling into fists, forcing himself to stillness. "Esther. What are you doing?" He couldn't be sure what had drawn him here, what lure had been strong enough to summon them both from their beds and out into the night, into such grave impropriety. Was it only her blood, calling to his? Was it the moon?

She drew closer, head tilted to one side as if studying a curiosity, gaze dreamy and guileless. "I don't know. I feel as if I came here in a dream. Don't you?"

He shook his head, looking down and away as he swallowed, breathing through his mouth in a failed attempt to lessen the distraction, the _temptation_ she presented; her light in the darkness. He took a single step back from her, feeling unsteady on the gravel and tangled grass. "Esther, you should return to your chambers." _It's not safe,_ he didn't say, but his silence implicated him all the same.

Esther eyed him, gentle blue sober and soft. "I'm not afraid of you, Father." The honorific drew his attention back, pinning it unerringly on her, feeling himself sinking into the earth, anchored by her steady beckoning gaze.

"I'm afraid," he mouthed the words, throat closing tight over the admission, barely a gritted whisper above the susurration of the wind. _Afraid of you... Of what I could do to you. What you could make me do._ Craven, suffocated by self-loathing, he could not make himself say it - could not bring himself to nobly withdraw when she drew abreast of him, staring up with the silver of the moon reflected in her eyes. 

She stood on tiptoe, smaller than ever in the ethereally whispering, translucent nightgown, bare feet rising from the ground till she stood balanced on one, the other folded behind her as if she would at any moment ascend. Her arms stretched up, a child seeking succor, a siren encircling his neck and drawing him into the depths to drown. Her fingertips trailed over the silver fall of his hair, twining through the satiny locks and making his skin prickle and burn.

"Esther..." he managed, in a voice only faintly resembling his own. 

"Shh." She frowned, accustomed by now to scolding him, and pressed her lips to his.

He was a greedy, selfish soul. He had not been able to resist, when opportunity had kindly presented itself throughout the course of their association, from finding solace in her embrace - drawing her fragile body close in protective assertion, or allowing her to comfort him when the weight of the world proved, for however brief an interval, too vast to bear alone. But that was nothing to this; her skin warm and alive under his hands, her mouth all sweet tremulous fire. 

Her kiss was chaste, woefully inexperienced, but the soft, ardent touch of her mouth ensured he would be devoid of all rational thought, forever. He had, at last, tasted heaven - and knew already he would never be satisfied with less than this. It was a dangerous thought, an ominous realization in the shadow of such bliss - that a monster like himself would happily kill for the touch of her lips. Long, lean arms curved around her body like bands of steel, senses full of her as she pressed harder against him, small hands splayed on his narrow chest; and he swallowed a moan at the touch of her cool fingertips against his scalding skin. Emboldened, she traced the tip of her tongue delicately along his upper lip, coaxing him to taste her. He gasped, and she pressed her advantage - with a shy, sly flutter, she licked into his mouth, caressing nerves already trembling with the tension humming between desire and restraint... Sliding over the sharp crest of one fang.The throb of pleasure was instantaneous, a visceral tightening that made his hooded eyes roll heavenward and his grip tighten around her waist. Sensing his weakness, his abominable _lust_ , Esther hesitantly - a little afraid, a little intrigued - tilted her mouth against his and did it again. He groaned, fluttering eyelids snapping open, irises blazing ruby. Long fingers flexed hungrily, and he felt the snagging catch of talons in the diaphanous silk of her nightgown. He released her instantly, the ever-present snarl of his hunger cresting to a deafening howl as her body left his arms. 

Like a sleepwalker, he'd been carried away - a man lost in a dark dream, sensuous indulgence stripping away his civility and revealing the hedonist, the _animal_ underneath. The beast was out before he had time to stop it, and he'd known his control was slipping but nothing like this. Wanton misuse of the Krusnik had warped it, causing it to morph and adapt - to become more like the Methuselah virus it was based on. He could not trust himself - and her warmth, her honey-sweetness so near, struck a cold terror into his heart. 

"Esther... Send me away, I beg you." His voice was not his own - or more his own than ever - each syllable heavy and dark, carrying the rumbling edge of thunder, a caged animal newly freed. 

Esther looked puzzled, bereft, for a moment as he stepped back and left the circle of her slim arms broken and empty. She blinked, her eyes refocusing as she gazed at him in the fading moonlight; and her soft lips, slightly swollen and red as licked candy, parted in a gasp as he'd known they must. _Monster._ For there was no concealing it; he stood before her adorned in all his wretchedness, the mark of his sins in the red of his eyes and the high, looming arch of black wings as they stretched overhead, silver hair a diadem of starlight above his brow. 

The Star of Istvan, brave Virgin Queen of Albion, squared her shoulders and tilted her jaw up defiantly, blue eyes challenging. This man, changed as he was, would never do her harm. She refused fear, turned it away as if it were a paltry beggar at her tower door. She was _not afraid._ She'd promised. "I refuse." She replied, queenly in her nightdress, courage gathered about her slim form like a mantle, to conceal her quivering.

Abel could not reply, monster and man locked in silence together as he sank to one knee before her, his head bowed. He submitted to her power over him, giving up the struggle to resist her, to ignore the way she made him feel. As if he were alive, as if he were worthy. As if he were human. When she took up his hand, slim fingers tucked into his larger palm and unwary of his ripping claws, he could only comply, rising to his feet to follow. She led him up the stone steps, through the ruined chapel to the stairs before the altar, and there turned back to face him, tracing the planes and angles of his face, the soft curve of pale lips plumped by the fangs beneath. He sank to his knees, a worshiping penitent at her altar; and she sank with him, allowing herself to be drawn down into the darkness, sitting on the altar steps, welcoming him as he melted into her arms. 

All at once she was full of him, his weight and the dusky scent of him and the electric tingle of his skin overwhelming her senses. Slim hands, for once ungloved, traced light, trembling touches along the mane of silver, long locks twined through her fingers. Abel shuddered and sighed, draped over her lap, kneeling on the cold marble floor of the chapel; _piet jesu_ in the arms of a saint. She was so small in comparison to his height, the tips of the great folded wings brushing over his bare back and the hem of her skirts, his arms loose around her waist.He needed to leave, to wrench himself from her embrace and flee into the midnight sky - but he could not muster the strength. He was so tired. He had been seeking sanctuary for so long.

Her touch wandered lower, over the lean but powerful shoulders, tracing the silken black feathers of his wings, folded in repose. She stroked the velvet softness dreamily, almost entranced, and asked in a murmur, "What... are you? Are you an angel?" And he moaned softly, sound a reverberation as tried to turn his face and hide his shameful need. He couldn't help it. It had been so long. He had needed her for so many centuries. And he was the furthest thing from an angel. 

He wrapped his arms around her waist, clinging to her as if he would sink into the earth and be buried, as if he would drown. He was so tired, so cold except where her hands traced blessings on his skin. Gradually he became aware that the sweet, enticingly warm scent drilling into his brain was her, that she...

_Oh God, save her from me..._

He tried to not be aware of it; tried to not feel her fingers longingly stroking his wings, his body, to not be aware of the way he was already painfully hard under this lightest of touches, to not nuzzle his face into the silky fabric of her skirt, into the sweet inviting warmth between her supple thighs.

He tried not to hear the way her voice trembled, lilting, when she asked him. "Does it hurt?"

"Every time." He murmured, drunk on her scent and her nearness.

"Show me."

For a moment he was confused, for he had already cast aside the trappings of his human form, a fallen angel sprawled across her lap, the Vatican's dog finally brought to heel. He could not have been more naked had he stripped down to the skin before her. But then she stood, her back to the cold stone of the altar; his skin suddenly bereft of her, cold as stone himself. She placed small hands on his shoulders and raised him gently up, Lazarus from the crypt, let him lean against her, head bowed against the silky hot curve of her neck, her skin like a furnace... And he realized what it was she truly wanted.

"Show me."

_Lead us not into temptation..._

"Esther..." _I want it so much._ "Esther, I..." _I cannot have you because I will not share you, not even with God._

She tilted her head, one graceful hand sweeping her hair back, baring her throat with the dreamy certainty of the sainted dead. The pink roses on her cheeks, the prize of any garden, were fed by the lush crimson stream that even now pulsed steadily up the slender column of her throat beneath its cover of snow. He growled at the display of submission, at how easily she offered up the forbidden fruit. He gripped her upper arms, lifting her till her small feet dangled, pressing her back onto the altar as if he would offer her to God, instead. " _No._ "

A little furrow appeared between her gently arched brows, her breathing shallow but sapphire eyes unafraid. "It's what I want. Do it, please... Abel..."

His name on her lips was his undoing. With a strangled moan that might have been a prayer for mercy, he drew her close, one hand cradling her head, the other wrapping around her tiny waist. His wings spread, curved; a soft sanctuary of midnight black outside which thunder reigned. Running his tongue along the length of her fluttering artery, shuddering at the wanton moan she uttered when his mouth touched her skin, he pressed his lips to her throat and gently - _so_ gently - pierced her maiden flesh.

 _At last,_ the Krusnik howled, savage in its victory, in its triumph over him and all he had tried to prevent. The taste of her, filling him up, washing over him in a tide of feeling and remembrance. He drowned in it, willingly, happily; fangs sinking deep and she whined, the vibration of it sweet in his mouth. Her mind was his, her body, her memories - all of it, his to claim and to keep. He waded through her recollections, each memory of himself more poignant than the last, intoxicated on the nectar and flame of her adoration. 

"Abel..." her voice moaned his name, a knife's edge balance between pleading for life, and pleading for death. His touch only stirred a craving for more, and she cared not where the path led so long as he never stopped leading her down it. 

He crushed her tightly against himself, growling low and greedy against her skin, and maiden that she was, she fainted dead away in his arms. Pale shadowed eyelids slipped shut with the gentle fluttering of butterfly wings, and suddenly he was alone with the moon and its silent judgment. 


	11. Totus Tuus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _"In the Garden of Eden, Eve showed more courage than Adam when the serpent offered the forbidden fruit. She knew that there was something better than paradise."_
> 
> _**-Cesare Borgia** _

The crackle of flame and the scent of woodsmoke, incongruous in dreams of velvet-soft wings and an endless diamond-studded night sky, were the first whispers of reality that crested and finally broke above the sea of unconsciousness. Esther stirred, clean linen and the enveloping luxury of goosedown soft and warm against her cheek. Long lashes fluttered, blinked slowly, blue eyes gazing out unseeing against an expanse of white, smooth and unbroken as a snow drift, the red fall of her hair the only splash of bloody color on an otherwise pristine plain.

 _Blood._ She sat up with a gasp, hand flying to her throat and fingering the tender bruise spreading over her skin like an incriminating stain. A bruise, but no ragged tear, no dripping crimson - healed, almost, as if by magic. Or science - the scattering of Methuselan cells swimming in her veins, performing their tasks with preternatural speed.

"Abel?" Her voice was slightly hoarse, her throat dry, working in a swallow as she glanced around the room. _His_ room, she realized, and in that moment caught the scent of him - crisp ozone, clean wool, the barest hint of copper clinging to the bedsheets. In his bed, alone - her belly clenched, flipping over nauseatingly in a confusing wash of excitement and loss. She looked down at herself, and was almost disappointed to see her nightgown still in place, unblemished save for a single vermilion drop on the breast, her own scarlet letter.

The soft clinking of metal upon metal drew her attention to the hearth, where a banked fire smoldered, casting a rustic orange glow on the stone walls and embroidered tapestries. Abel stood before the crackling coals, still in the soft dark slacks he had worn in the ruined chapel, now with a loose white shirt open at the collar. He'd brought a goblet to the lip of an elegant silver decanter, and was filling it with clear water. The splash of liquid against metal was unbearable, she was so desperately thirsty, and she stretched her hands towards the cup - towards _him_ \- like a needy petitioner. A gentle smile curving thin lips, he pressed the goblet into her hands and watched her drink greedily.

A waif, a mere _child_ \- bruised and broken in his bed, the long fringe of her lashes brushing her cheeks as she swallowed and set aside the cup, cobalt eyes still downcast. He made to turn from her, to hide his wretchedness - the way every atom strained to claim, to consume her, even as he tended to her as gently as a father... A beast, garbed in the sanctity of the church they both served. As he stepped back, glancing away, she caught his sleeve, drew him near once more. "Wait, please. Stay."

"I..." _I can't,_ he wanted to say, though could not force himself to speak the words. Where could he go? Out into the stormy and unrelenting night, away from the warm glow of her adoration? It seemed impossible. "I... Shouldn't." He tried instead. Her fingers in the fabric of his shirt were slim, pale - as unbending as steel.

"Stay." She said simply, her voice small but deliberate and sure, and he was as powerless before it as a sapling in a tempest. So he sank down beside her, the plush featherbed giving way beneath the tall and angular weight of him. She shifted a little, drawing one knee up to her chest beneath the coverlet, resting her small hand over the warm skin of his wrist - so warm, he was so surprisingly warm - where it was exposed by the upward drag of the loose cuff on his sleeve. He swallowed, all nervousness and kinetic energy; the banked embers in the hearth reflected in his pale eyes as he looked anywhere but at her. He was all but transparent, could have vanished like a feather in a backdraft at her soft, vaguely plaintive murmur. "I was a little surprised, when I woke up here... And I..." Her voice trailed off but her lingering eyes followed the words where they had led, slender fingers dipping beneath the fragile strap of her nightdress in a self-conscious fidget, tracing her clavicle, patterned with the ghost of childhood freckles, barely visible beneath her milk-white skin. A little frown creased her brows - her smallness, her willowy fragility, had long been a source of annoyance for the little queen. Of course, he had cossetted her off to bed like the silly little girl she was, betrayed once again by her own physical weakness. "I just thought..."

The train of her thoughts, moving faster than his overtaxed brain, hit him and dragged him along to its natural conclusion. His gaze rested on her fingertips, absently tracing, fiddling with the thin silk ribbon crossing her shoulders and holding the flimsy garment in place. _Of course,_ she'd perceived his restraint as rejection. She didn't know - couldn't know, he prayed she would never know - how close she'd come to dying in his arms. How the miserable shrieking loneliness buried deep in the core of him had _longed_ for her death, hungered for it - ached, still, to see her brought low by his ravening hunger, only to be reborn colder, harder... Deadlier, like him. He said nothing of the howling darkness, blinked it away - instead, raised a playful brow at her. It was a risk, but... She had beheld him adorned in all his wretchedness, the ashes and sackcloth of his unholy lineage. He could afford to be playful. "Did you think I would take you there on the altar?" At her pointed, smothering silence he smiled a little, past his flaming blush. "Oh Esther, I have loved you for far too long to defile you in a house of the lord."

"I wouldn't have minded," she murmured, low enough that it was obviously not intentionally spoken aloud but still his sensitive ears caught it. And she meant it, she knew, a little tremble of wonder and horror evident in her timid voice and shaking her down to her bones. She considered herself, if not virtuous, then at least devoted - wed to the church, obedient and pious. And she knew, with the chill of a shadow passing over her soul, like black wings blotting out the sun, that she would give herself over entirely to this new darkness, to this whispered lure - had, indeed, already given herself over, a sacrifice upon his altar. _Ave, pater_ , said the blush on her cheeks, the heady bitten-lipped silence that followed her declaration. _I am yours._

He was unable to control the flush of piqued interest highlighting his fine cheekbones at her words and looked askance, muttering, "Perhaps another time." Demon that he was, he could not help but feel a little sacrilegious thrill at the thought of marking her as his in such an obscene manner, spiriting her away from both god and man. Still unable to meet her eyes, he twitched in surprise at the cool, tender touch of her fingers, tracing the line of his jaw, stroking over his neck and collarbone beneath the open vee of his shirt. He sighed, a broken, quavering sound; staring down at his hands clenched in his lap, useless and unable to offer resistance. His protest was a hoarse whisper, dying in his throat. "Esther..."

Her gentle petting wove threads of gossamer around him, invisible spider's silk drawing him in, burning through his resolve. Her skin was soft and warm as she held her arms out to him, pulling him down, the bloom of violet at the base of her neck his weakness and his shame. The arms he wrapped around her slender frame shook with the urge to crush, to violate the inviolable. His want for her, his love, was an abject, horrible thing; overbearing in its power. He closed his eyes, blotting out the vision of her fair and yielding flesh, the paper-thin fabric of her nightgown dipping low over full curves and diaphanous bones. The attempt did nothing, he was inundated in the scent of her, lush and inviting - could still feel her in her arms, the press of her lips beneath his jaw, in the hot and rapidly fluttering hollow of his throat. "Abel..." she whispered, pleading, dark sacrament laid out in her blue eyes that burned with the eagerness to receive.

"Kyrie eleison," he choked out, already lost, already drowning, and cradled her head in his long hands, crushing his lips to hers. Immediately the Krusnik surged to life within him, battering against the walls of his restraint in a fury, his head full of the sound of her needy little moan and the ferocious beating of black wings. Yet if she hesitated now, pushed him back with her tiny hands and laughably human strength, if she bid him _stop_  - he would.

Instead, she lunged forward, toppling him back onto the feather-soft duvet the Duchess' generosity had afforded him, parting her lips and licking into his mouth like the sweetest, most damning flame. She twined herself around him; a clinging vine, sentient and desirous, slim thighs parting at his hips, thin bare arms and delicate hands digging nails like small daggers into his shoulders. She had no intention of letting him go. With a soft growl, a desperate thing, he pressed one large hand to the small of her back and tipped her back with dizzying swiftness; and suddenly it was the Krusnik that hovered over her, red eyes glowing and intense. He shut them, long claws biting into the mattress as he attempted in vain to master himself. He could kill her easily, could snap her fragile spine in his ravenous embrace, could tear away the nightgown and rip her throat out with sharp animal teeth... _God help me..._

A small hand, the gentlest caress, rested on his cheek, prompting him to open his eyes - wide, and blue, unutterably conflicted. "Esther, please..." _I could destroy you... I could make you like me._

His thoughts made themselves known in the reflecting pools of her eyes, his own face distorted, drawn, high spots of color against the stark pallor of despair, of yearning.

"I'm yours," she whispered, still gentle, still trusting. "As I have ever been." And all at once it was over, the struggle; crumbling like an ancient wall before the force of a hurricane - all his resistance, melting away beneath the tide of a primeval lust. He kissed her as if his life depended on it, talons again snagging on the silk of her nightgown, hesitating - then slicing through, shredding it to ribbons and baring her smooth white skin to his touch. She gasped, her skin instantly aflame, arching up into him and heedless of the claws and fangs that could bleed her dry. "Abel!"

_Forgive me._

His insides snarled at the taste of her, a bellyfull of thorns and the scorching sweetness of her lips on his. He craved more, ached to devour her, to bury his teeth in her throat and his cock in her liquid heat and let himself be immolated. To disappear inside her, burned away like the impurity he was. Instead he broke the kiss with a gasp, pressing her down into the bed with a firm grip on her arms. She quivered and quaked beneath him, and unable to resist the forbidden fruit, he reached with long, trembling fingers to cup, to caress, to pluck at the sweet rosy peaks of her; breast heaving as she labored to breathe beneath the fervor of his onslaught. He looked, _felt_  like a man compelled; running his long animal tongue down her sternum, between the sweet ripe curve of her breasts, dipping into her navel, and lower... Slaking his lust for her blood with the taste of her nectar, instead.

She mewled and arched above him, little nun's skin shed like a serpent's; all queen now as she twined her fingers in his silver hair and pulled, hard, her hips bucking up in imperious demand. He could have feasted at her table forever, he thought, tongue dipping hungrily into wet heat, his narrow face buried between her thighs. She panted and squirmed, aching to approach that fabled precipice, willing and ready to throw herself off. Long fingers teased delicate petals, stroking and pressing; she twisted beneath his grip on her hips, high breathless voice begging and incoherent. He licked a greedy burning stripe over her core, and again, taking her higher until she shattered with a crystal cry and fell. Slick and quivering, she clung to him, raising him up - Lazarus once again - the pulse point in her throat fluttering like a hummingbird as she wrapped her legs around him and begged.

"Please, I need-" It was not enough, could never be enough. He allowed himself to be tempted, allowed himself to fall. Her small hands, questing and clever, skated down over the soft linen of his shirt; her nails scraping up over his belly, the lean defined muscle of his abdomen, the crest of his hips above the hem of his pants. She tugged, slim fingers nimble and quick, at the drawstring, dragging them down and exposing his beasthood to her wide inquisitive eyes and soft lips, parting in a gasp. "Oh!" Her touch him was curious, exploratory, stroking and squeezing gently as she educated herself on this new territory.

He spoke through gritted teeth, eyes rolling up beneath fluttering lashes as she circled his shaft a little more firmly. "Esther, _please_ ," a phrase that was quickly becoming a mantra, uttered repeatedly in times fraught with great need.

"Yes," And the word was a hiss, breathed out against the hard plane of his shoulder on a tongue of flame. " _Yes,_ Abel," And with a single smooth thrust he was hers, and she was his - maidenhead torn, stolen from God from amongst the ranks of angels, cast down into hellflames, with him. _Mine._  His sullied princess, his bloodied virgin queen.

Her blood on his flesh was a baptism; a brand of their joining that scalded him, brought the Krusnik forth with a vengeance, crimson eyes snapping open as he groaned, low greedy utterance tapering off into a bestial growl. Small machines, minuscule monsters doing the work of a grander evil, absorbed her essence as they'd been designed to do - starving for her on a cellular level, his monster a ravening cavern inside of him. Slow, gentle rhythm stuttered, his hands gripping hard, leaving bruises on her narrow waist, her delicate ribs. With a gasping shudder and a brutal snap of his hips that made her wail in agonized ecstasy, his vision shattered into white, dragging him down into her past.

The voice came first, piercing the blinding white silence like a blade, like fangs, like a demon's prick buried to the hilt in the driven-snow bride of Christ. Bland, bored, a little fond - unexpected as a sudden snowfall, familiar as the icy touch of death.

"Lovely, brother," and he heard his twin's voice as if he were present, as if the prodigal son whispered in his own ear. "Is she not?" Soft white and champagne gold, the clean elegant lines he had come to despise, swam before his vision; he struggled against an iron grip. The memory had been planted, hidden in the girl's dark dreams and forgotten nightmares... Cain, visiting her as she slept like the incubus he was; taunting his younger sibling, taking her blood... Giving her his own. He walked in a memory that had been created for his benefit, wearing Esther's skin as he discovered the message his brother had left for him. Struggling against the inevitable, even as the metal-dark taste of Krusnik elixir flowed into his mouth, Cain's idle chuckle trickling like poison into his ear. "Once more, Abel, and she'll be mine. What will you do then?"

His crash back into reality came too late, as she peaked with him, both tumbling blind and blissful into darkness. _Sweet Christ, what have I done?_


End file.
